Autobiography

By Samaila Suleiman, PhD

“No amount of deconstruction and reconstruction, to turn history on its head, can bury the truth” – Sule Lamido.

Writing a review of Being True to Myself, the autobiography of His Excellency, (Dr) Sule Lamido, is, for me, both an intellectual obligation and a profoundly personal reckoning. As a student of historiography and politics of knowledge production, book reviewing is an integral part of my professional calling. At the same time, as a member of the editorial team of the Sule Lamido Autobiography Project (SLAP), along with my colleagues Dr Nu’uman Habeeb and Mustafa Ibrahim Chinade, I lived with the idea of this book, from its conception to the first manuscript drafts, the final typeset, and its printing and public presentation. 

Book reviewers are traditionally expected to be neutral critiques, assessing works with analytical distance and relying largely on their reading of the text. What I offer here, however, is a deeply personal reflection of a tripartite engagement with the author, the text, the context of its production and the reactions it elicited from readers. This is, therefore, not a conventional book review but an attempt, as one of the editorial consultants for the project, to recount the story of thinking (working) with Sule Lamido in the making of Being True to Myselfitself. 

The Context

I first met Sule Lamido in 2019 when the late Professor Haruna Wakili introduced me, along with Dr. Nu’uman Habeeb and Mustafa Ibrahim Chinade, to serve as editorial consultants for his autobiography project. Our role was to facilitate the production of the text through interviews and other editorial interventions. Before this meeting, my knowledge of Lamido was limited. I knew him only as a former Minister and Governor. What I did not immediately realise was how profoundly the project would impact me as a historiographer, constantly negotiating the epistemological questions of truth, power, and narrative responsibility. 

The first lesson I drew from the project was the discovery of Lamido as an intellectual—an aspect of his persona that is often overshadowed by his public image as a forthright politician. At our inception meeting, I was immediately struck by his brilliance and philosophical acuity—following a lengthy conversation about the focus of the autobiography. My initial perception of Lamido was quickly overturned. Beneath the image of a seasoned politician, I encountered a man of deep philosophical substance, whose politics is rooted in a profound knowledge of history and critical thought. 

Although Lamido is not a career academic, his grasp of political and historical discourse is profound to the extent that some of his academic friends affectionately call him “Professor.”  He is one of the few politicians around who embodies the tradition of first-generation politicians, whose politics are grounded in principles and knowledge.

Over the course of many interviews with the editorial team, Lamido narrated his life story with a precision and wit that often left me marvelling at his hyperthymesia, attention to detail, and critical reasoning. Each time we returned to a topic for clarification, he would recount events with striking consistency, as though he had already internalised the book long before the project began. 

As the project advanced, Lamido took control of the content, style, and narrative flow of his autobiography, insisting on framing his experiences within a broader historical process. Even at the stage of typesetting and design, he remained involved, reviewing passages, fact-checking, and fine-tuning the manuscript. At one point, I jokingly said to him, while the book was already at press: “Your Excellency Sir, bakin alkalmi ya bushe”—implying that no further edits should be made, especially with the launch date approaching.

Some of our most intense editorial discussions went beyond factual accuracy to debates about historical methodology and explanation. When Lamido was advised to moderate some contentious revelations in the manuscript, he posed critical questions around secrecy and privacy in knowledge production, carefully dissecting the distinction between classified and declassified records. I found myself challenged, at times humbled, by his rigour and the depth with which he interrogated established academic assumptions about Nigerian history, politics, and writing. This level of discursive sophistication is rare among people without advanced degrees in historical studies.

There were moments when the manuscript resisted simplification, and we chose to retain its complexities rather than smooth them over, because they were intellectually honest. This demonstrates that a political memoir, at its best, is not merely a legacy-building exercise, as many autobiographies are, but a critical exercise in self-reflection within the context of history. Lamido gave himself that space and, in doing so, gave us the opportunity to reconsider some of our scholarly convictions about the nature of truth, memory, and life writing.

The Text  

Lamido’s distinctive voice is evident throughout Being True to Myself. Those familiar with his discursive signature will immediately recognise his bluntness, candour, and unfiltered expression in the text. 

Unlike many public figures whose autobiographies are primarily shaped by ghostwriters, Lamido maintained a hands-on approach. Each chapter bears his imprint, making the work not only intimate but also a demonstration of authorial agency.

Even the book’s title was not chosen lightly. It was the product of a year-long reflection on what Lamido’s life represents. Ultimately, Being True to Myself was favoured as the narrative’s central theme, mirroring the life of a man of unshakable principles and conscience.  The title comes from a passage where he describes himself as “an independent-minded child, who always stood his ground…not because I felt important, but because I tried to be true to myself.” 

What makes Being True to Myself particularly compelling is its historical nuance and emotional texture. Lamido alternates between humour, vulnerability, and defiance, recounting comical childhood stories, such as his naïve performance during Ramadan tashe, alongside harrowing experiences of persecution and betrayal. His willingness to revisit painful memories, without bitterness but with conviction, creates a text that is both deeply personal and politically insightful. 

The book is divided into eight broad thematic parts, tracing Lamido’s journey from his early life in Bamaina to his career in the Nigerian Railways and Tobacco Company, his involvement with the PRP, his time as foreign minister, and his tenure as governor of Jigawa State. It offers rich commentary on important political events such as the annulment of June 12, his detention under General Sani Abacha, his role in the formation of the PDP, the Obasanjo Presidency, his tenure as Foreign Minister, the Yar’Adua Presidency and how he was succeeded by Goodluck Jonathan, and the intricacies of power, politics and democratic governance in Jigawa state. 

In discussing Nigerian politics, Lamido dons the garb of a political scientist and historian, offering a critical examination of the military’s role in Nigerian politics. He critiques successive regimes, from Buhari’s military rule to IBB’s sophisticated but flawed transition programs, Abacha’s repression, and Abdulsalami’s genuine and successful transitional government, as well as the restoration of democracy. His reflections read as much like political history as autobiography, enriched by his insider perspective. One cannot help but wonder at the contents of his library, given his ability to weave theory and empirical detail with ease. 

The Praise and the Pushback 

Since its launch in May 2025, Being True to Myself has attracted a wide range of reactions, from praise by the media, scholars and statesmen to criticism from political associates, reflecting the complexity of both the author and the book.

At the high-profile launch in Abuja, political heavyweights celebrated the work. President Bola Tinubu, through his minister, commended Lamido as “a bold, consistent, and principled politician whose personal journey mirrors the story of Nigeria’s democratic evolution.” He described the book as a “significant contribution to Nigeria’s political literature,” encouraging other political veterans to document their experiences for posterity. 

The book reviewer, Dr. Iyorchia Ayu, lauded Lamido’s courage, recalling episodes such as the author telling an IGP, “Who are you?” and a military head of state to his face, “You must resign”. 

The book has not been without detractors. Some critics, including Malam Aminu Ibrahim Ringim, a former Chief of Staff to Lamido during his governorship, criticised the memoir as being rife with “self-glorification, misrepresentation and disrespect for the contributions of others.” 

Taken together, these divergent reactions reveal the dual nature of Being True to Myself as both an intimate self-portrait and a contested historical document. 

On the whole, the Sule Lamido Autobiographical Project is an elegant demonstration of how autobiographies can serve as a space for dialogue between politicians and scholars, working as collaborators in the pursuit of truth.

As former President Olusegun Obasanjo writes in the foreword: “No historian or public affairs officer should be without a copy of the book. I enjoyed reading it.” 

Happy 77^th Birthday and best wishes, Sir!

Samaila Suleiman, PhD, wrote from the Department of History, Bayero University, Kano. He can be reached via smlsuleiman@gmail.com.

By Samaila Suleiman, PhD

Political memoir is an important genre of autobiography. It preserves not only the memories of its author but also serves as a first-hand account of critical policy decisions and political milestones in a nation’s historical journey.

In a country where official records are often incomplete, contested, or deliberately erased, writing autobiographies is more than just a historiographical or literary venture—it is a moral and social obligation on the part of the political class to share their personal truths, address silences, and contribute honestly to the preservation of our national history. 

What lessons can the life of Sule Lamido, who is one of Nigeria’s most principled elder statesmen, offer us about our country’s turbulent and checkered national history, marked by deep-seated contradictions?  

Having been active in the political scene for over four decades, the story of Sule Lamido is hand in glove with Nigeria’s political history, spanning important political transitions and dispensations. 

Following years of thoughtful introspection, Sule Lamido’s long-awaited autobiography, Being True to Myself, will be formally launched on 13 May 2025 at the NAF Conference Centre in Abuja.

With a foreword by Olusegun Obasanjo, Being True to Myself promises to deliver a constellation of compelling insights and thought-provoking revelations on the inner workings of power and governance in Nigeria – a story of unflinching refusal to compromise the ideals and principles that have guided Lamido’s politics since the Second Republic.

The event will be chaired by former Head of State, General Abdulsalami Abubakar, with former President Olusegun Obasanjo as the Special Guest of Honour, and Dr Iyorchia Ayu, former Senate President, as the book reviewer—three eminent national figures whose presence underscores the national significance of both Sule Lamido and his autobiography.

Being True to Myself will surely resonate not only with students of history and politics but with every Nigerian who still believes in the politics of principles and the promise of a better Nigeria.

By Bashir Uba Ibrahim, PhD

Etymologically, the terms “autos”, “bios”, and “graphein” are Greek forms. While the former stands for “self”, the “bio” represents “life”, and the “graphein” which diachronically and morphologically changes over time to “graphy,” means “to write”. Thus, autobiography is a self-written narration of one’s own life. 

According to Celluni, “All men, whatever be their condition, who have done anything of merit, if so, be they men of truth and good repute, should write the tale of their life with their own hand”. Thus, the recent 420-page memoir launched by the former military Head of State, Ibrahim Badamasi Babangida, on Thursday, 20^th February 2025, is a typical instance of a self-written account of one’s own life experiences.

Babangida’s A Journey of Service: An Autobiography is highly anticipated due to the author’s role as one of Nigeria’s most controversial, if not enigmatic, military leaders. His perceptive ingenuity and cunning leadership style earned him the nickname “Maradona” or “evil genius.” Thus, his reign was marked by numerous seemingly unforgettable controversies and troubles, ranging from the mysterious death of journalist Dele Giwa, the failed coup of Mamman Vatsa and his subsequent execution, Gideon Okar’s bloody failed coup, the Structural Adjustment Programme (SAP), the OIC palaver, and above all, the 1993 June 12 saga. 

As noted by Lejunre (1975), the supreme value of autobiography lies in its nature as a product of the writer’s self, the private realm of his reflective self that informs the bios and graphein, with which they interact to form a text as a discourse about his existence, particularly emphasising the development of his own life and personality. Therefore, as an autobiographical text, A Journey in Service represents a personal account of its author.

In addition, Babangida, in this book, makes a striking revelation, submissions and confessions that left some of its readers in a deep shudder and bewilderment. For instance, about the June 12 saga, an election that was annulled in broad daylight by him, he writes that on June 23^rd, 1993, he left Abuja for Katsina to commiserate with the Yar’adua family over the death of their patriarch, Musa Yar’adua, the father of Major General Shehu Yar’adua and the late Nigerian president Umar Musa Yar’adua when “a report filtered to me that the June 12 elections had been annulled” (pp-275). He thus shifts blame to former Head of State General Sani Abacha, who was then his Chief of Defence Staff, the accusation which some people view as not only baseless but rather a joke and a scapegoat as succinctly captured in the book “But annulment was only a component of series of other options. But to suddenly have an announcement made without my authority was, to put it mildly, alarming. I remember saying: ‘These nefarious inside’ forces opposed to the elections have outflanked me! I would later find out that the forces led by General Sani Abacha annulled the election. There and then, I knew I was caught between a devil and deep blue sea” (pp-275).  

Therefore, Abacha served as a whipping boy or a fall guy, thus taking the blame. This is where the need for thanatography- a death writing comes up. Had Abacha been alive, the people would like to hear his side of the story on this saga, or had it been possible to write from the grave, thanatographically, his submission will help in striking a balance. Therefore, it is probable to say that Babangida’s autobiography, A Journey of Service, is just a metaphor of self that conceptually and schematically treatises his life journey from his early years, school years in Wushishi and Bida, early military career as a young officer to Nigerian civil war and NDA teaching years, mounting the saddle of leadership as the military head of state and the challenges that follow. 

In short, this autobiography is timely as it emerges in an era where one of MKO Abiola’s disciples, who fought for the cause of June 12, which led to his exile, is ruling the country. Meanwhile, the public’s eagerness to hear Babangida’s perspective after 32 years since the incident, along with numerous intricate mysteries, controversies, and decisions that characterised his regime, makes the book’s readership thought-provoking. 

However, my prediction is that the book will be subjected to various interpretations, re-readings, and misinterpretations depending on the perspective of its readers. Therefore, critics of this autobiography or memoir may approach it with the intention of deconstructing it, as the autobiographical activity (by Babangida) is also a form of deconstruction, evident through the narrative account and the self-writing upon the subject self.         

Dr Bashir Uba Ibrahim writes from the Department of English and Literary Studies, Sule Lamido University, Kafin Hausa. He can be reached via bashirubaibrahim@gmail.com.

By Ibraheem A. Waziri 

On February 20, 2025, Nigeria marked a pivotal moment in its historical and literary landscape by launching A Journey in Service, the autobiography of General Ibrahim Badamasi Babangida, the nation’s former Military Head of State. Held at the Transcorp Hilton Hotel’s Congress Hall in Abuja, the event drew an illustrious crowd: President Bola Tinubu, former Presidents Yakubu Gowon, Abdulsalami Abubakar, and Goodluck Jonathan, alongside business magnates Aliko Dangote and Abdulsamad Rabiu. 

Beyond the fanfare and the nearly N17.5 billion raised for the IBB Legacy Centre—mistakenly dubbed a presidential library in early reports—the memoir’s release reignites a profound discussion about autobiographies. Far from being vessels of absolute truth, such works are meticulously crafted narratives designed to logically articulate an author’s perspective while justifying their actions and thoughts—past, present, and future. Babangida’s A Journey in Serviceembodies this, offering a lens to explore the constructed essence of autobiographical storytelling.

Autobiographies are, by design, subjective endeavours, distinct from impartial chronicles. They weave personal accounts from memory, intent, and selective disclosure, often prioritising coherence over unvarnished fact. Babangida, who governed Nigeria from August 27, 1985, to August 26, 1993, remains a divisive figure. Known for deft political manoeuvres—earning monikers like “Maradona” for his agility and “evil genius” for his cunningness—he oversaw a tumultuous era marked by economic upheaval and democratic setbacks. His most infamous act, the annulment of the June 12, 1993, presidential election—widely deemed Nigeria’s freest at that time, won by Moshood Abiola—has haunted his legacy for 31 years. 

Nigerians anticipated A Journey in Service as a chance for clarity or confession, yet its launch reveals a narrative sculpted to reflect Babangida’s self-perception. He acknowledges Abiola’s victory, a move Tinubu hailed as “unusual courage,” but frames the annulment as an unauthorised act by General Sani Abacha and other officers while he was in Katsina, sidelined by circumstance. This selective disclosure suggests not a full unveiling but a justification, repositioning him as a constrained leader rather than complicit.

This subjectivity underscores a broader truth: books, especially memoirs, filter reality through hindsight, bias, and audience expectation. Babangida’s 420-page work, reviewed by former Vice President Yemi Osinbajo, promises insights into his eight-year tenure—economic reforms like the Structural Adjustment Programme (SAP), infrastructure feats, and banking deregulation—yet sidesteps a complete reckoning. 

Critics highlight glaring omissions: no confession regarding the October 19, 1986, assassination of journalist Dele Giwa by a parcel bomb widely linked to his regime; no accounting for the $12.4 billion Gulf War oil windfall, per the 1994 Pius Okigbo report; and no remorse for the executions of coup plotters like Mamman Vatsa in 1986 and Gideon Orkar in 1990. Babangida’s claim that he feared Abiola’s assassination if he took office—a speculative justification—casts him as a reluctant actor amidst a military cabal, absolving himself of agency. As much as the revelations, these silences illustrate how A Journey in Service constructs a narrative that defends, rather than fully discloses, a deliberate choice aligning with autobiographical norms.

The memoir’s role as a legacy-building tool further amplifies its constructed nature. Launched as Babangida, now 83 (born August 17, 1941), nears life’s twilight, and Nigeria approaches the 2027 elections, the event doubled as a fundraising spectacle for the IBB Legacy Centre. Billion-naira pledges from Dangote, Rabiu, and others—totalling N17.5 billion per ThisDay—underscored Babangida’s enduring clout 31 years after stepping down. 

The title A Journey in Service reframes his rule as a patriotic endeavour, softening the authoritarian edges of his “evil genius” persona. By admitting Abiola’s win while distancing himself from the annulment’s execution, he crafts a complex portrait: a transformative leader navigating chaos, appealing to admirers who credit him with modernisation while mitigating critics’ ire over economic hardship and political repression. This duality reflects a narrative engineered to reconcile his past with the statesman image he seeks today, extending its influence beyond the page into Nigeria’s political present.

The historical context of Babangida’s tenure enriches this analysis. His regime followed a series of military coups, inheriting a nation battered by oil-dependent economics and factional strife. The SAP, intended to liberalise the economy, sparked inflation and unrest, while his annulment catalysed protests and deepened ethnic divides, paving the way for Abacha’s reign. A Journey in Service likely glosses over these ripple effects, emphasising achievements—like the Third Mainland Bridge or Abuja’s development—to counterbalance failures. This selective memory mirrors how autobiographies prioritise legacy over accountability, inviting readers to weigh Babangida’s narrative against Nigeria’s collective experience.

Reactions to the memoir underscore its status as perspective, not fact. Tinubu, a June 12 activist turned president, praised its candour as setting “records properly,” perhaps reflecting political pragmatism. Afenifere, a pan-Yoruba group, rejected it as too late to mend the annulment’s “ogbonge damage,” echoing Yoruba grievances. Activists accused Babangida of exploiting Nigeria’s accountability vacuum, a sentiment rooted in decades of unresolved justice. Literary scholar Pius Adesanmi, were he alive, might have called it a “textual performance,” blending truth and theatre. These responses reveal a fragmented reception: the book’s narrative is interpreted through readers’ biases, not universally embraced as truth, highlighting the elusive nature of autobiographical authority.

However, this constructed nature does not diminish the value of A Journey in Service; rather, it enhances its complexity. It provides a window into Babangida’s mind: his rationalisations, regrets, and aspirations amid a career of calculated risks. At the launch, Goodluck Jonathan urged the preservation of such narratives to enrich Nigeria’s political archive, calling for the institutionalisation of personal histories. 

Readers, however, must approach it sceptically, recognising it as one voice in a cacophony of perspectives—those of June 12 activists, SAP victims, and silenced journalists. Its significance lies not in claiming absolute truth but in sparking reflection and debate, compelling Nigerians to confront the ambiguities of their history. For youth, as commentators suggest, it offers leadership lessons—resilience and adaptability—albeit through a self-justifying lens that demands critical parsing.

Comparatively, A Journey in Service fits a global tradition of autobiographical narrative-building. Nelson Mandela’s Long Walk to Freedom blends triumph with curated humility, while Barack Obama’s Dreams from My Father navigates identity with selective introspection. With its wit (per Osinbajo’s review) and strategic candour, Babangida’s work joins this lineage, tailoring Nigeria’s military past to a personal saga. Its launch timing—amid economic woes and democratic flux—amplifies its relevance, positioning Babangida as a commentator on leadership in crisis, a narrative thread justifying his past while influencing future discourse.

In conclusion, autobiographies like A Journey in Service are not absolute truths but woven narratives serving their authors’ ends. Launched on February 20, 2025, Babangida’s memoir—through selective revelations, strategic omissions, and legacy-driven intent—justifies actions like the annulment while shaping his present stature and future remembrance. 

As Nigerians grapple with its contents, it stands as a testament to storytelling’s power: not a final word, but a provocation to question, analyse, and seek broader truths it skirts. In a nation wrestling with its past—where military rule, economic policy, and democratic betrayal remain raw—such narratives are vital, not for certainty, but for the conversations they ignite, urging a deeper reckoning with history’s many voices.

Ibraheem A. Waziri wrote from Zaria.

By Amir Abdulazeez, PhD

In ancient times and through the Middle Ages, people used autobiographies to share hidden truths, make confessions and communicate genuine experiences. Nowadays, they are used by politicians and world leaders for self-justification and self-glorification. Whether in the West, across Africa, or within Nigeria, the pattern remains the same—political figures use autobiographies to rewrite history in their favour, often ignoring their failures or controversies.

Between 1948 and 1954, former British Prime Minister Winston Churchill published multiple volumes of memoirs portraying him as World War II’s hero. While Churchill was undeniably a key figure in the war, his narratives downplayed criticisms of his leadership, including his alleged role in the Bengal Famine of 1943, which resulted in the deaths of millions. His autobiographical works cemented his legacy as a wartime leader while sidestepping his more controversial decisions.

Modern political memoirs have increasingly become exercises in selective storytelling, where leaders carefully articulate their narratives to present themselves in the most favourable light possible. Former United States President Richard Nixon used his autobiography, The Memoirs of Richard Nixon, to repair his image after the Watergate scandal. After lying about the possession of weapons of mass destruction as a justification to invade, Tony Blair’s A Journey and George W. Bush’s Decision Points cruelly and shamelessly attempted to justify their baseless war in Iraq in 2003. 

Across Africa, many leaders have also engaged in the practice of using autobiographies to deny or justify their shortcomings. As good as they were, Ghana’s Kwame Nkrumah, Zambia’s Kenneth Kaunda, Tanzania’s Julius Nyerere, and Kenya’s Jomo Kenyatta have all been accused of using autobiographies to exaggerate their legacies, downplay their shortcomings, and ignore controversies around their stewardships.

In Nigeria, Olusegun Obasanjo’s 2014 book My Watch has been widely criticised for being self-serving. While Obasanjo portrays himself as a patriot and a visionary leader, he conveniently overlooked his authoritarian tendencies and allegations of corruption and electoral fraud during his tenure.  

Despite all the glaring circumstances that led to Dr. Goodluck Jonathan’s decisive defeat in the 2015 Presidential elections, in his 2018 book My Transition Hours, he tried hard to justify and downplay his actions while also constructing different conspiracy theories that gave the impression that he didn’t lose the elections freely and fairly. 

Just when we thought we had enough of all these politicised autobiographies, former Military President General Ibrahim Badamasi Babangida has released his own memoirs. While often and correctly presented as one of Nigeria’s finest soldiers, strongest leaders, and elder statesmen, we cannot expect his memoirs to differ significantly from those of other Nigerian, African, and world leaders. IBB is unfortunate to be one of the most studied and documented Nigerian leaders, and there are numerous controversies, inconsistencies, and tactical deceptions associated with his tenure that no autobiography can reconcile. 

One major criticism of IBB’s memoir is its timing. The delayed release suggests a strategic waiting period for public emotions to cool and memories to fade. Apart from the main actors, many others in a position to validate or refute whatever he might say in his book are deceased. In fact, the majority of the current generation of Nigerians were not even born when he left power in 1993. In a nutshell, while Babangida’s autobiography may attempt to rationalise many of his decisions, the scars left by the events he oversaw, such as the Structural Adjustment Programme, state executions, public corruption, and the endless and wasteful transition programme, will remain fresh in the country’s memory.

In Nigeria, what have these autobiographies taught us? Many leaders and political figures have left behind terrible legacies that they cannot afford to entrust to impartial storytellers. While they ought to spend the remainder of their lives in regret and reflection, they prefer to add salt to the wound by publishing half-truths and falsehoods as autobiographies. When they do this, they invariably have other elitist co-conspirators, who benefited from their actions and inactions in power, gathering to celebrate them as heroes. 

As a former Nigerian leader, as long as you are alive and influential, you can always find a way to redeem your image despite your atrocities. I often ask people to imagine if General Sani Abacha were still alive; who would dare to recover any foreign loot associated with him? Who doesn’t have skeletons in their cupboards? Unfortunately for Abacha, apart from being dead, he had also stepped on most, if not all, of the toes that would have protected him, and again, one of the most affected became President just 11 months after his death.

Not everyone is the same. There are patriotic Nigerian leaders, statesmen, and freedom fighters who deserve to write autobiographies. Unfortunately, when they do, their works often get drowned in the ocean of the more negative ones who are wealthier and more popular. By tradition, Nigerians tend to promote and accept things that are popular and glamorous rather than those that are truthful and sincere. This is why you don’t hear trending biographies about Gani Fawehinmi, Abdulkadir Balarabe Musa, and others.

Ultimately, everyone has the right to their own opinion and narrative of events as they wish others to perceive them. While autobiographies offer valuable insights into the minds of world leaders, they should be read critically. Readers must recognise that these books are not always honest reflections of history but are often carefully crafted narratives aimed at preserving a leader’s legacy. 

The memoirs of political leaders frequently function more as instruments of image control than as genuine historical accounts. The ultimate judgement of political leaders should not lie within the pages of their autobiographies but rather in the lived experiences of their citizens and the tangible impacts of their policies. 

I read three autobiographies recently, and I found them to be outstanding and honest: Sir Ahmadu Bello’s My Life, Nelson Mandela’s Long Walk to Freedom and Mahatma Gandhi’s The Stories of My Experiments with Truths. Sardauna’s was simple, least self-glorifying and occasionally self-critical. Mandela’s was strictly a chronicle of collective struggles, only mentioning but leaving out details about subjective issues and cleverly terminating his story to the point he was inaugurated as President. He left the story of his presidency to be told by others. Gandhi’s was the best; when he was literally forced to write his memoirs in 1925, he named it ‘My Experiments’; the translators added the word ‘autobiography’. He never wanted to write because he believed that if your actions were right, there was nothing to boast about; for the wrong ones, there would always be many people to help you write them.

Twitter: @AmirAbdulazeez