Buhari rode in as a messiah and bowed out as a myth—delivering disappointment instead of deliverance, and leaving Nigerians poorer, hungrier, and politically heartbroken.
He came wearing the face of hope, a former general who had once ruled with a firm grip but now claimed the heart of a democrat. Muhammadu Buhari, who died at the age of 82 in a London clinic, returned to Nigeria’s top job in 2015 through the ballot box, not a military coup. It was a moment Nigerians had never seen before—a man who had once taken power by force now chosen by the people to lead them into a better future. His victory felt like a sunrise after years of long political darkness.
He had tried three times before and failed. But when he
finally broke through in 2015, it wasn’t just a personal triumph. It was
history. He became the first opposition candidate to defeat an incumbent in
Nigeria. His face appeared on campaign posters, his name whispered in the
alleyways of Kano, and in the crowded, sunburnt streets of Lagos. He was “Mai
Gaskiya”—the man of truth. And most of all, he was trusted.
People believed in him not because he smiled much—he
rarely did—but because he didn’t need to. His face was carved in seriousness.
He was known for being honest, a rare thing in a country whose rulers often
left office far wealthier than they had entered it. He promised to fight
corruption, to defeat Boko Haram, to lift up the poor, to bring rice back to
their tables. And so, millions walked behind him, cheering a man who they hoped
would lead them with the discipline of a soldier and the heart of a father.
But now that he is gone, the smell left behind is not one
of fresh bread or fertile rain. It is of dust, disappointment, and doubt.
His rise to power had begun decades earlier, shaped by
the hard lines of military schools and the cracked roads of post-colonial
Nigeria. Born in 1942 in Daura, a small town near Nigeria’s northern border,
Buhari was raised by his mother after his father died when he was just four. He
was his mother’s 13th child, his father’s 23rd. Even as a boy, Buhari was
marked by discipline. He joined the army soon after Nigeria gained independence
from Britain in 1960, trained in England, and rose through the ranks with a
quiet, cold determination.
By the early 1980s, he was at the top, installed as
Nigeria’s military ruler after a coup that removed the elected government. He
didn’t hide from the task. He launched a “war against indiscipline,” ordering
civil servants to frog-jump in public if they were late to work and commanding
citizens to form lines at bus stops under the eyes of soldiers with whips. He
jailed hundreds—officials, journalists, even musicians like the great Fela
Kuti. He changed the color of Nigeria’s currency overnight and forced people to
exchange old notes in a tight window, an echo that would return decades later.
Some called it bold reform. Others called it cruelty. But even his enemies
could not say he was corrupt.
That’s why, after years in the political wilderness, he
came back. Not with tanks, but with ballots. His second act as president was
supposed to be different. Now, he said, he believed in democracy. And Nigerians
believed him.
But what they got instead was a man too distant to fight
the storms, too slow to steer the ship, and too old to keep up with a country
bursting with young, hungry energy. His critics gave him a nickname: Baba Go
Slow. He said it wasn’t his fault—it was the system. But people did not feel
the system when they slept hungry. They felt the price of rice.
Ah, rice. When Nigerians were asked what they would
remember most about Buhari’s presidency, the answer came not in analysis but in
a single, sad phrase: Bag of rice. Under Goodluck Jonathan, the previous
president, a 50kg bag of rice cost 7,500 naira ($4.90). Under Buhari, it rose
to 60,000 naira ($39.00). Rice, the food that fills the bellies of ten in one
household, became a symbol of hunger. Buhari had banned rice imports to push
local farming. But the farms didn’t yield enough. The people bore the price.
The economy sank. Global oil prices crashed, and with
them, Nigeria’s hopes. Young people, who had chanted his name in 2015, now sat
jobless and restless. The promise of employment became a ghost. Insecurity
spread. Boko Haram was not defeated—it multiplied, its factions forming
alliances with the Islamic State. Bandits roamed the northwest, kidnapping
schoolchildren and terrorizing villages. In central Nigeria, clashes between
farmers and Fulani herders turned deadly. Buhari, himself a Fulani, was accused
of silence—too soft on those he should have restrained.
And then came the protests. In October 2020, the youth
rose again—not in celebration, but in fury. The #EndSARS movement demanded an
end to police brutality. They gathered at the Lekki tollgate in Lagos, waving
flags, singing the anthem. What followed was blood. Soldiers opened fire. The
images circled the globe. Buhari stayed quiet for too long. When he finally
spoke, it felt empty. The nation had bled on his watch, and he offered no balm.
Even his final years were marked by confusion. The naira
swap policy, introduced just before the 2023 elections, plunged the country
into chaos. Old notes were confiscated, new notes were scarce. Markets froze,
people couldn’t buy food, weddings were canceled, and sick patients couldn’t
pay for transport. The policy was meant to reduce vote-buying. But many
believed it was a secret move to sabotage Bola Tinubu, Buhari’s own party’s
candidate. He claimed neutrality. But his silence screamed.
And then there was his health. Throughout his first term,
Buhari vanished for long stretches, often to London, for undisclosed
treatments. Nigerians never knew what ailed him. In a country where even the
common man must explain a day's absence, their president vanished without
explanation. The nation wondered: Is he still fit to lead?
Buhari never stopped believing he was right. He insisted
the 1983 coup was justified, that journalists jailed under his rule had broken
the law, that his delays were not his doing. He rarely said sorry. But now he
is gone, and the final judgment comes not from generals or judges, but from the
people who once placed their trust in him.
He was buried with the prayers of some and the
disappointment of many. His wife, Aisha, once threatened not to support his
re-election. His supporters, once proud to carry his banner, now speak in past
tense, their voices flat. His legacy, once glowing with promise, now hangs in
the air like unfinished business.
He came as a soldier, ruled as a general, returned as a
reformer—but left as a symbol of promises unkept. Muhammadu Buhari, Nigeria’s
austere anti-corruption crusader, now belongs to history. But his story, for
many Nigerians, still stings in the present. The man who came to clean the
house left behind broken windows and a half-swept floor.
