Buhari’s Quiet Lesson to the Men Who Love Power Too Much -By John Egbeazien Oshodi

In Memory and in Warning

Muhammadu Buhari died on July 13, 2025. With his passing came more than the end of a political life—it sparked a quiet reckoning. In homes, offices, and public spaces across Nigeria, people began to speak not only of what he accomplished, but more poignantly, of what he refused to do. He did not loot. He did not build empires around his name. He did not chase headlines or orchestrate spectacles. He governed with caution—at times painfully so—but in a country where visibility often substitutes for substance, Buhari’s restraint became a strange and instructive virtue.

Yes, like many Nigerian leaders, Buhari was seen by some as tribalistic, overly loyal to his northern Muslim base, and unyielding in his affinity for his ethnic and religious identity. These criticisms—particularly in the South and among Christians—were not without foundation. His lopsided appointments, his quietude during moments of ethnic tension, and his inability to build cross-regional trust left lasting fractures. But even within these shadows, there remained one attribute that stood like a mountain: his personal honesty. In a political climate thick with opportunism and excess, Buhari was widely regarded as incorruptible, uninterested in siphoning wealth or distorting public institutions for private gain.

He was far from perfect. But he became—perhaps unintentionally—a contrast model. A mirror through which today’s political titans might examine their own instincts, postures, and appetites.

Tinubu: Power as Architecture

Bola Tinubu is a man of immense political architecture. His legacy in Lagos is undeniable. His talent for assembling coalitions, sustaining loyalty, and building durable political structures has earned him a reputation as Nigeria’s grand strategist. But behind that brilliance lies a model deeply dependent on personal allegiance—on being at the center of every negotiation, every calculation.

Where Buhari recoiled from personal adoration, Tinubu appears nourished by it. Where Buhari left little trace of self-glorification, Tinubu’s name is etched into infrastructure, narratives, and institutions. This is not mere branding; it is the personalization of the republic—a symbolic centralization that quietly tells the nation: “Without me, things fall apart.”

Still, a quiet discomfort has been building. Not from speeches or decrees, but from absences. Long stretches of travel—sometimes described as official, other times unclear—have left Nigerians wondering where decisions are being made and by whom. Weeks pass, responsibilities remain untransferred, and the nation waits. Yet life on the ground does not pause. Illness, violence, and hunger continue without intermission.

To be fair, President Buhari too left the country frequently for medical treatment during his time in office, often for extended periods. It caused national concern. But many recall that his tone, even in distance, remained measured and modest. He rarely sought the spotlight, never insisted on public applause, and—despite criticism—did not appear dismissive of the people’s condition. His silences were frustrating, but they did not come with the feeling of abandonment

With President Tinubu, the perception is evolving. It is not merely about travel; it is about presence—the sense that leadership is not only constitutional, but emotional. That when people are suffering, they want to feel that someone is walking with them, or at the very least, is watching from close by.

Tinubu’s lesson may be the most urgent: that power built through loyalty alone will demand constant repayment, and the cost is often the erosion of institutional neutrality. Buhari was many things—rigid, often too slow—but he did not project a presidency that operated from distance. His governance may have lacked energy at times, but it rarely left people feeling overlooked.

That difference—between physical absence and emotional detachment—is one Nigerians are now learning to feel in real time.

Akpabio: The Theater of Power

Godswill Akpabio has long understood the stagecraft of politics. From governor to minister to Senate President, he has built a career not only on influence, but on presence—a presence that commands attention, fills rooms, and leaves few in doubt of who holds the gavel. His style is theatrical, self-assured, and deliberately visible. But beneath that commanding exterior lies a quieter unease: a growing perception that under his leadership, the Senate risks becoming more of a performance hall than a deliberative chamber.

Increasingly, Akpabio is seen not as a check on executive power, but as its most willing partner—not resisting the presidency’s impulses, but smoothing their passage. Oversight has become optional. Debate, decorum. The Senate, under his watch, has appeared quick to approve, slow to question, and hesitant to assert its own institutional weight. That posture, whether strategic or self-protective, has left many wondering: Is the gavel being used to balance power—or to echo it?

More concerning still are moments that feel less like leadership and more like detachment. When fellow senators raise serious matters, they are sometimes met not with sober engagement, but with quips and dismissiveness. At a time of economic crisis, when millions of Nigerians are struggling with hardship and insecurity, visible laughter at public complaints—no matter how unintended—registers as tone-deaf at best, and contemptuous at worst. Leadership, especially in times like this, is as much about posture as policy.

Nowhere has this tension been more visible than in the treatment of Senator Natasha Akpoti-Uduaghan, one of the few women in the chamber, and arguably one of its most scrutinized. Her independence, her insistence on speaking openly, and her refusal to follow internal expectations have seemingly triggered a series of procedural reprisals—committee removals, subtle exclusions, and symbolic isolations. What may appear routine to some, to others feels deliberate: the quiet disciplining of a voice that would not bow.

Akpabio has the experience and the intellect to lead with gravity. But discipline without fairness becomes spectacle, and leadership that protects only the powerful slowly empties itself of meaning. The danger is not in flamboyance—Nigeria is used to that—but in forgetting that the gavel, at its best, is not a prop or a trophy. It is a moral weight.

Wike: The Storm of Ego

Nyesom Wike is kinetic. He does not enter spaces—he disrupts them. From Rivers State to Abuja, his presence is loud, deliberate, and often confrontational. His supporters admire his boldness, his combative wit, his refusal to back down. But boldness without balance is dangerous.

Unlike Buhari, who rarely responded to criticism, Wike appears fueled by it. He reacts swiftly, sometimes impulsively, often emotionally. His political style leans toward control-as-justice—a tendency to interpret disagreement as disrespect and rivalry as rebellion. Where Buhari preferred the shadows, Wike often prefers the megaphone.

Wike presents himself as loyal to one party, yet his actions often undermine its leaders while aligning with the interests of other parties. His ongoing conflicts and quiet support for rival agendas raise serious doubts about his true political intentions. This duality—public allegiance and private deviation—reflects a deeper instability in his political psychology: a seeming loyalty to structure, but a deeper loyalty to self-preservation.

The psychological danger here is subtle but profound: when power becomes an extension of the self, governance turns into a battlefield of ego, and leadership becomes indistinguishable from retribution.

The Institutional Distortion: A Deepening Contrast

If Buhari left behind a virtue, it is this: he did not possess institutions. Today, one of the most disquieting developments is how deeply embedded personal influence has become in the judiciary and police. The separation of power—once a foundation of democratic order—has become blurred, even inverted.

Under Buhari, the courts and police were slow, sometimes ineffective, but not overtly possessed. Today, Nigerians increasingly perceive them as extensions of political will, not protectors of public justice. Whether in controversial court rulings, selective enforcement, or the silencing of dissent, the fingerprints of influence are now visible. Akpabio’s Senate maneuvers, Wike’s rumored alignments with the courts and enforcement agencies, and Tinubu’s reach into appointments—all raise the quiet question: are we witnessing the death of institutional independence?

Buhari may have been rigid and overly cautious, but he left institutions standing—not kneeling.

Buhari’s Restraint and the Questions That Power Cannot Escape

Say what you will—Buhari was not the transformational leader Nigeria needed. But he also was not the self-indulgent figure Nigeria feared. He did not build dynasties. He did not demand loyalty oaths. He did not launch campaigns to erase opponents from history. When his time was up, he left—not with a coronation, but with silence.

And so the question must be asked—not of the past, but of the present: What happens to a country when power is used not to serve, but to settle?

In the words of Nigerian activist Aisha Yesufu, “Most times, we don’t think about our mortality.” And indeed, power—especially in Nigeria—has a way of numbing that awareness. It seduces its holders into believing they are permanent, immune, untouchable. But one day the convoys will vanish, the sycophants will scatter, and what will remain are memories—not of what you built, but of who you broke.

Mortality is not just the end of breath; it is the end of excuses. It is the day when silence speaks louder than defense. When no one asks about your title, but everyone remembers your shadow—what it covered, and who it darkened.

These are the questions that must now be asked—not in anger, but in truth:

To Bola Ahmed Tinubu, who now sits atop a fragile nation with every lever of authority within reach: Will you be remembered as the man who held Nigeria together—or the one who bent it to fit his image?

To Godswill Akpabio, who holds the Senate gavel yet seems more at ease wielding it as a club: Will you leave a legacy of legislative strength—or of institutional shame cloaked in theatrics and revenge?

To Nyesom Wike, who moves through cities with the force of one still campaigning, still conquering, still asserting: Will your footprints lead to governance—or will they be read as a trail of wounded egos and unfinished grudges?

This is not governance if it is built on humiliation. This is not leadership if it thrives on fear. This is not nationhood if your name must be whispered with caution in the very democracy you claim to protect.

Power, like life, is passing. And when the silence of death comes, only one thing will matter: Did you use your power to lift people—or to crush them when you didn’t need to?

Final Reflection: The Psychology of Power and Mortality

He would not gather a crowd. He would not raise his voice. But if Muhammadu Buhari were to leave behind a final message—to those who now sit where he once sat, and to those who still confuse state power with personal inheritance—it would not be a sermon. It would be a quiet reckoning:

“I held power—but I let it go. I had access to the courts—but I did not bend them to punish my critics. I was mocked and misread—but I did not hunt down those who disagreed with me. I did not demand loyalty in exchange for silence. I did not decorate my legacy with threats. I did not treat this country as something to possess.”

And then, more personally:

“Now I am gone from you all. I cannot return to correct anything. But you—those of you still in office—still can.”

To the one who now carries the burden of the state—who has built a vast network of loyalty and control—he might offer a simple question, not with anger, but with concern:

“You have mastered the structure—but have you protected its soul?”

To the steward of the legislature, now caught between mockery and mandate, he might ask:

“Can the nation’s laws still command respect, when laughter becomes their language?”

To the voice of the city, the strongman in the heart of power, he might ask, quietly:

“Can leadership outlast fear, when dignity is no longer invited into the room?”

And to the men and women in robes and uniforms—to those who write judgments, sign warrants, enforce orders—he would leave this:

“You were never employed to serve the powerful. You swore to serve a republic. Find your way back.”

Because in leadership, the power to punish is never the test. That’s the easy part. Any office can silence. Any title can command. The real test is knowing when not to use it. The real strength is restraint.

That was Buhari’s paradox: not transformational, not quick, not eloquent. But not vengeful. Not greedy. Not cruel.

He did not try to own the state. He did not criminalize laughter. He did not treat governance as conquest.

His silence may not always have been wise—but it was never weaponized.

Now he is gone.

And those who remain must face the only question that truly lasts—not the question of popularity, or praise, or even survival in office:

Can you carry power without staining everything it touches? Can you rule without shrinking the people beneath you

Because history will forget. Newspapers will fade. But mortality does not forget. It does not care for convoy sirens. It does not kneel before medals or manifestos.

It will ask just one question, when the curtain falls:

When you had the chance to show mercy, did you? Or did you harm—just because you could?

That is the final audit.

And now that I am gone from you all—

the answer is no longer mine.

It is yours.

Professor John Egbeazien Oshodi is an American psychologist, educator, and author with deep expertise in forensic, legal, and clinical psychology, cross-cultural psychology, and police and prison science. Born in Uromi, Edo State, Nigeria, and the son of a 37-year veteran of the Nigeria Police Force, his early immersion in law enforcement laid the foundation for a lifelong commitment to justice, institutional transformation, and psychological empowerment.

In 2011, he introduced state-of-the-art forensic psychology to Nigeria through the National Universities Commission and Nasarawa State University, where he served as Associate Professor of Psychology. Over the decades, he has taught at Florida Memorial University, Florida International University, Broward College (as Assistant Professor and Interim Associate Dean), Nova Southeastern University, and Lynn University. He currently teaches at Walden University and holds virtual academic roles with Weldios University and ISCOM University.

In the U.S., Prof. Oshodi serves as a government consultant in forensic-clinical psychology and leads professional and research initiatives through the Oshodi Foundation, the Center for Psychological and Forensic Services. He is the originator of Psychoafricalysis, a culturally anchored psychological model that integrates African sociocultural realities, historical memory, and symbolic-spiritual consciousness—offering a transformative alternative to dominant Western psychological paradigms.

A proud Black Republican, Professor Oshodi is a strong advocate for ethical leadership, institutional accountability, and renewed bonds between Africa and its global diaspora—working across borders to inspire psychological resilience, systemic reform, and forward-looking public dialogue.