By Bola Babarinde, South Africa
Nigeria’s political history is not short of strongmen, reformers, survivors, and opportunists. What has remained constant, however, is a recurring failure by many who wield power to understand its most basic truth: power is transient, accountability is inevitable, and history is rarely kind to those who mistake authority for ownership.
When General Ibrahim Badamasi Babangida assumed power in August 1985, replacing the Muhammadu Buhari–Tunde Idiagbon regime, Nigeria witnessed a decisive shift in style and substance. The Buhari–Idiagbon government, driven by rigid discipline and ideological passion, sought to reform Nigeria with little regard for public sentiment.
Babangida, by contrast, understood the psychology of power better. He governed Nigeria for almost eight years, from 1985 to 1993, mastering political balance, elite consensus, and international engagement, even though his era remains controversial, especially due to the annulment of the June 12, 1993 election.
Babangida did not fall to the streets. He exited through elite power realignments, paving the way for General Sani Abacha, a ruler whose name has become synonymous with dictatorship.
Abacha seized power in 1993 and ruled until his death in 1998, governing with absolute authority and fear. He died in office, still holding power tightly, leaving behind a legacy of repression and unprecedented looting of public funds.
One of the darkest chapters of Abacha’s rule was the persecution of former Head of State Olusegun Obasanjo, who was imprisoned and reportedly faced execution. History, however, has its ironies. Following Abacha’s death, Obasanjo was released by the transitional government of General Abdulsalami Abubakar and, in 1999, was elected President of Nigeria.
Obasanjo governed for eight years, from 1999 to 2007, wielding power with the confidence of a man who had stared death in the face and survived. His presidency was marked by assertiveness, sometimes arrogance, but also by deep influence over Nigeria’s political succession.
Obasanjo handed power to his long-time associate’s brother, Umaru Musa Yar’Adua, whose presidency was tragically short-lived. Following Yar’Adua’s death in 2010, Goodluck Jonathan ascended to the presidency amid intense political resistance. Jonathan governed until 2015, when Nigeria experienced its first democratic transfer of power to an opposition candidate.
That candidate was Muhammadu Buhari, a former military ruler turned serial presidential contender, whose eventual victory was made possible largely through the political machinery and strategic support of Bola Ahmed Tinubu, Nigeria’s master political organizer. Buhari ruled from 2015 to 2023, completing two terms in office.
Yet Buhari’s civilian presidency revealed a troubling paradox. While he personally projected an image of integrity, his administration became engulfed in allegations of grand corruption, policy capture, and reckless abuse of power by aides and appointees. Many Nigerians believe that Buhari’s health challenges and governing style created a vacuum, enabling powerful officials to operate with little restraint.
Among those frequently mentioned in public discourse is Abubakar Malami, Buhari’s Attorney General and Minister of Justice. Allegations surrounding recovered assets, unexplained wealth, and institutional abuse have continued to trail him and other high-ranking officials from that era. These allegations, now subjects of investigations and legal scrutiny, highlight a deeper problem: how proximity to power often breeds impunity, arrogance, and a dangerous illusion of permanence.
Power intoxicated many who believed Aso Rock was a personal estate rather than a temporary trust. They forgot that once office is lost, influence evaporates quickly, and the law, though slow, eventually calls.
In 2023, Bola Ahmed Tinubu, propelled by the now-famous “Emilokan” doctrine, won the presidency through a fiercely contested but widely recognized election. His ascent marked the culmination of decades of political engineering and survival. For many Nigerians, it also reopened unresolved questions about accountability, past governance, and whether the culture of impunity would finally be confronted.
The scale of funds reportedly traced to top officials from previous administrations, including those connected to the financial and justice sectors, has raised uncomfortable questions. Can such systemic plunder occur without at least tacit presidential awareness, or does it reflect a deeper institutional failure where power shields wrongdoing until power itself is lost?
History suggests that exposure is often delayed, not denied. The end of power usually marks the beginning of truth. Nigerians are watching closely, hoping that this moment signals a genuine turning point where no individual, past or present, is above scrutiny.
In the end, Aso Rock belongs to Nigerians, not its occupants. Time humbles all who forget this simple fact. If accountability is finally allowed to run its full course, then Nigerians, long betrayed by their elites, may yet emerge as the ultimate winners.
