Memoirs that deepen controversy
By Bagudu Mohammed
The historic account presented to the public by former Head of State Yakubu Gowon is fascinating even from its title, “Book of Allegiance”. Gowon may not have penned it himself, but the title carries his unmistakable cadence, the kind of English intonation Nigerians call “Oyibo,” measured, deliberate, almost ceremonial. Yet the moment it landed, it reopened old wounds and provoked new ones, as if the past had been waiting in ambush for a pen to stir it again.
I keep wondering if it’s worth it at all for Nigerian leaders and public figures to write memoirs. Instead of closing the chapter on misunderstanding, these books often set the room on fire. The original account sparks counter-narratives, each side claims a fragment of truth, and what was meant to clarify becomes another battlefield. Memories once buried rise up, half-forgotten stories are dragged into daylight, and the controversy grows teeth.
Take Ibrahim Babangida’s A Journey in Service: An Autobiography of Ibrahim Babangida published February 20, 2025. It traces his early life, his years as military president from 1985 to 1993, and for the first time, his public regret over annulling the June 12, 1993 election. But the book didn’t settle the debate. It weaponized it. Critics called it a half-truth dressed as confession, especially around his origins and the pivotal decisions that altered Nigeria’s trajectory. Political scientist, Paul Ricoeur warned that memory is selective by nature. What we remember and how we frame it is shaped by the need to make sense of the self. In Babangida’s case, the selective memory became fuel for public contestation, not closure.
The same pattern played out with Aisha Buhari. Her personal accounts inside Aso Villa, featured in Charles Omole’s From Soldier to Statesman: The Legacy of Muhammadu Buhari were meant to clear the air, to explain the mysteries, to humanize the presidency. Instead, they drew cynicism. Detractors dismissed it as an overzealous attempt to appear saintly, even at the expense of her husband’s image. This mirrors what communication scholar, James Carey described as the “ritual view of communication”. People don’t read to receive information neutrally; they read to confirm, challenge, or defend their existing worldview. So a memoir becomes less a document of fact and more a mirror for the reader’s bias.
There are structural reasons no leader escapes this trap. First, the public domain is already crowded with competing accounts of the same events. People don’t evaluate evidence in a vacuum; they lean toward the version that vindicates their convictions. Psychologists call this “confirmation bias” and it explains why Nigerians remain split on issues like genocide, the roots of insurgency, banditry, and religious crises. We don’t argue over data as much as we argue over the story that protects our tribe, our politics, our pain.
Second, every leader in power becomes a lightning rod for suspicion. Goodluck Jonathan was linked to Boko Haram and the Chibok abduction, with some seeing negligence and others seeing a calculated conspiracy to destabilize his government. Muhammadu Buhari faced similar charges, and now Bola Tinubu is accused of using INEC and the judiciary against the opposition. Both Peter Obi and Atiku Abubakar claimed victory in 2023, yet the failure of real-time electronic transmission of results fed the suspicion that the system was rigged. How does a leader write a memoir that persuades people who already believe the verdict is in?
Here lies the deeper problem: objectivity is nearly impossible when the author is also the accused. There’s the burden of apology, the risk of legal exposure, and the instinct to protect legacy. So memoirs morph into art that carefully composed narratives, frame every decision as noble, every error as well-intentioned, every outcome as beyond control. The goal becomes “no victor, no vanquished,” and the self is exonerated on the page if not in history.
In Nigeria, this is amplified by a political culture where leadership is inseparable from conspiracy narratives. As anthropologist, Jean-François Médard observed in his work on neopatrimonialism, public office is often treated as private property, and suspicion becomes the default lens through which citizens interpret power. Under that lens, no memoir can be read as innocent. It is always a plea, a defense, or a provocation.
So memoirs don’t end controversy. They refresh memory, sharpen division, and hand the public new ammunition. And perhaps that’s the point. In a society where truth is contested and trust is thin, the memoir is not a closing statement. It’s the next round in a fight that never really ends.
Bagudu Mohammed can be reached via bagudumohammed15197@gmail.com
