Late General Mohammadu Buhari and the Burden of History -By Oluwafemi Popoola

Nigeria closed a defining era with the quiet passing of a man who once loomed large over its national consciousness. General Muhammadu Buhari, a former military leader, twice-elected president, and a figure both revered and reviled. He, few days ago, died in London. He was 82. For many, the news felt less like a shock and more like the solemn toll of a bell marking the end of a long, often turbulent, political pilgrimage.

Though his death came after weeks of speculation about his health, the confirmation still struck a deep chord across the nation. Whispers of a deteriorating condition, an ICU stint abroad, and veiled updates had created an atmosphere of suspended anticipation. True to the mystique that often surrounded him, Buhari’s final moments were shrouded in the same silence and secrecy that defined much of his rule. In departure, as in life, he remained an elusive figure, part myth and part memory. What ailed him was kept a closely guarded secret and the cause of his death was not known.

As I watched Nigerians react both in real life and on the social media, I couldn’t help but notice how divided the emotions were. Some were angry. Others nostalgic. A few, indifferent. But in all these voices, one thing became clear that Buhari’s relationship with the people he led was anything but simple.

Like all mortals, Buhari now belongs to memory, not flesh. And memory is a strange country. It does not always obey the codes of silence and reverence that death demands. While some argue we must never speak ill of the dead, others insist that truth, no matter how uncomfortable, should not be buried with the man. I find myself caught somewhere in the middle, trying to make sense of a man who inspired hope and disappointment in equal measure.

His political story peaked in 1983 when he became Head of State through a military coup that ousted the civilian government of President Shehu Shagari. That relationship with Nigerians began as one of force and fear. His regime was marked by strict discipline, infamous decrees, and the “War Against Indiscipline” campaign. His presence loomed large—even on television. There was no mistaking who was in charge.

But history has a strange rhythm. Three decades later, Buhari would return not in khaki, but in agbada. In 2015, he made history by defeating an incumbent president, ushering in a wave of democratic optimism.

For many Nigerians, especially the youth, he symbolized change and integrity. He was seen as the honest general who could finally put an end to corruption and defeat Boko Haram. He was the father figure who would restore order. For a few months, that hope soared. Then reality bit hard.

Under his administration, Nigeria suffered two economic recessions. Inflation and unemployment surged. The same corruption he vowed to fight seemed to morph into new, more elusive forms. There were infrastructural wins—yes, he did oversee some of the most ambitious rail, road, and bridge projects in decades, but they were often overshadowed by policy missteps and a troubling silence in moments that demanded empathy.

I remember the Twitter ban vividly. For a nation whose youth found voice, business, and expression online, the ban was a betrayal. A punishment for daring to speak truth to power. Estimates say the seven-month Twitter ban cost local businesses millions of dollars.

And then came the #EndSARS protest—a watershed moment in our democratic journey. The youth took to the streets, not just to end police brutality, but to demand dignity. The Lekki Toll Gate shootings left scars that time has struggled to heal. For many young Nigerians, that was the moment the love they once felt for Buhari curdled into something colder.

But Buhari was not a one-dimensional leader. There are Nigerians, especially pensioners and civil servants, who will remember him fondly. He paid long-overdue pensions and arrears, bringing relief to those who had been forgotten by previous governments. His Social Investment Programmes, including N-Power, TraderMoni, and school feeding schemes, reached millions. I once met Orioye Benedict Gbayisemore, a young farmer from Ondo, whose life was transformed by these initiatives. He saw in Buhari a benefactor, a leader who gave him a fighting chance.

Both as a military and democratic leader, Buhari styled himself as a symbol of discipline and anti-corruption. His supporters saw him as Nigeria’s Lee Kuan Yew—a strict father who could clean the house, even if it meant a few broken dishes. But unlike the Singaporean leader, Buhari never quite mastered the art of balancing discipline with innovation, or justice with empathy.

In some ways, he reminds me of Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o’s fictional characters—men of great ideals swallowed by the weight of power. In Petals of Blood, there’s a recurring theme: how revolutionaries lose their way once they taste governance. Buhari’s legacy reads like that arc—starting from a disciplined visionary, only to be consumed by the very system he sought to reform.

Internationally, he was often quiet but firm. He preferred subtle diplomacy over grand gestures. Yet, his silence in the face of certain national tragedies was often seen as apathy. Nigerians want leaders who feel.

Now that he is gone, we are left with stories—some filled with gratitude, others with grief. Some will remember a man who stood tall against terrorism, while others will remember a father who lost a child in a Kaduna train attack. A rail line Buhari commissioned, but which became a site of horror.

Death does not silence memory. And for a leader like Buhari, memory will be contested for years to come. Was he a reformer who didn’t go far enough? Or a rigid man who refused to evolve?

For now, Nigeria stands still, quieted by the death of a former president and by the weight of memory, legacy, and what might have been. In moments like these, we do not merely mourn a man we confront the mirror he leaves behind for those who govern or aspire to lead. His absence echoes with questions we can no longer ask, and answers we may never get.

As a people, we must hold space for two truths at once that Muhammadu Buhari gave parts of his life to serve this nation with undeniable conviction and that in the process, he sometimes faltered, misunderstood, or disappointed the very people he vowed to protect.

His story is not one of triumph, it is not one of tragedy, it is the complex song of a leader who walked through history bearing both promise and burden. For those who hold or hunger for power, Buhari’s life is a quiet warning that legacy is not only cemented in strength alone, but in the tenderness to hear the voiceless, the humility to confess when wrong, and the grace to grow while leading.

Oluwafemi Popoola is a journalist, news aggregator and communications strategist. He can be reached via bromeo2013@gmail.com.