The late General Muhammadu Buhari was a man whose name once rang with the promise of redemption. Twice in Nigerian history first in 1983 and again in 2015 millions of citizens, desperate for salvation from corrupt governance, welcomed him into power with hearts brimming with hope. They dared to believe that he was different, a man of honour with the grit to restore Nigeria’s dignity. But time would unravel that belief and leave behind a sobering lesson about myth, memory, and power.
In 1983, Buhari stormed into national consciousness as the stern-faced soldier determined to “clean up” a nation drowning in corruption. Young intellectuals across campuses, especially those indoctrinated by the radical voices at Ahmadu Bello University like Patrick Wilmot, Abdulrahman Balarabe, and Yusufu Bala Usman believed Buhari’s regime marked the beginning of a national awakening. Fueled by Africanist ideologies and revolutionary fervour, many saw Buhari as Nigeria’s version of Jerry Rawlings or Thomas Sankara: a moral purifier born to reset a decadent system.
Though that military regime was short-lived, its memory lingered long enough to inspire the myth of Buhari as a reluctant messiah, betrayed by internal saboteurs and denied a chance to complete his mission.
Fast forward to 2015. Buhari returned not as a general, but as a civilian democrat riding on a tidal wave of frustration with the Goodluck Jonathan administration. His famed asceticism, symbolised by modest personal wealth and military discipline, was held up as a sharp contrast to the excesses of the ruling class. Buhari’s past, including his tenure as chairman of the Petroleum Trust Fund (PTF) under Sani Abacha, was presented as proof of his integrity. Supporters brushed aside old controversies like the infamous “53 suitcases” incident, and championed him as incorruptible.
For many, including this writer, Buhari’s second coming felt like divine intervention. I, like countless Nigerians, backed him wholeheartedly. Some trekked hundreds of kilometres across the country in celebration of his win. Others sacrificed personal gain, choosing hope over comfort. I even opposed my own political advantage as a special adviser under a Jonathan-aligned minister, convinced that Buhari’s rule would be the moral reset Nigeria needed.
On May 29, 2015, when Buhari declared, “I belong to everybody, and I belong to nobody,” he rekindled the dream of national unity. Here, finally, was a leader who could break the chains of religious, regional, and ethnic politics. Here was a man who could draw the best minds from every corner of the country to rebuild Nigeria.
But the dream began to fade fast.
Buhari’s government would go on to make one misstep after another, starting with the appointment of ministers uninspiring in quality and inconsistent with the high standards he had promised. Six months of delay in forming a cabinet was met with anticlimactic disappointment. More disillusioning was his decision to retain Central Bank Governor Godwin Emefiele whom he had once accused of economic sabotage despite a mountain of concerns about monetary policy and financial integrity.
By 2019, the image of Buhari as a symbol of hope had been largely eroded. His reelection, unlike 2015, lacked the magic of genuine public faith. The nation that once saw him as a father figure began to feel like a betrayed child. Unlike Jonathan in 2015, who graciously accepted defeat and declared that no Nigerian’s blood was worth his political ambition, Buhari’s second term was marred by widespread violence, contested electoral conduct, and a clear erosion of democratic norms.
The myth of Buhari the reformer crumbled. The billions allocated to State House feeding and luxury vehicle purchases under his administration painted a stark contradiction to his reputation for frugality. Rather than curbing profligacy, he entrenched it. Rather than lead with empathy, he often appeared distant. And rather than surround himself with technocrats and patriots, he favoured loyalty over competence.
Even his once-revered anti-corruption crusade was undermined by selective prosecutions and the shielding of close allies. Under Buhari, Nigeria’s insecurity worsened, education deteriorated, and healthcare systems remained in shambles. The man once hailed as Nigeria’s conscience seemed unable or unwilling—to govern with the moral clarity people expected of him.
Supporters who once chanted his name began to whisper regrets. “Buhari will change Nigeria,” they once said. But by the time he left office, the sentiment had reversed: “Nigeria changed Buhari or perhaps we never truly knew him.”
Some now argue that Buhari was not a failed leader but a masterful politician who outplayed his rivals. General TY Danjuma once described him as “a soldier’s soldier.” But perhaps he was also a politician’s politician adept at navigating the corridors of power but unwilling to disrupt the structures of privilege that benefitted the elite.
In truth, the Buhari era is a cautionary tale. It warns us of the danger in placing blind faith in personalities over institutions. It reminds us that integrity without competence is a hollow virtue and that nostalgia, no matter how powerful, cannot replace evidence-based governance.
Nigeria’s journey with Buhari began in hope and ended in disappointment. Now, as the country continues its search for leadership, it must do so with wiser eyes and firmer resolve. For in the final analysis, Buhari did not fail alone his failure is a reflection of a country that still struggles to distinguish symbolism from substance.
