On June 12, 1993, millions of Nigerians stood in long lines under the burning sun, believing they were witnessing history in the making. For the first time, an election free of military interference had seemingly taken place. Hope was in the air, in what was regarded as one of Nigeria’s fiercest and fairest elections. Then, without warning, it was taken away. The election was annulled, its winner Moshood Abiola (popularly known as MKO) was denied his rightful position as president-elect and Nigeria was plunged into a political crisis that changed its trajectory. Now, decades later, the man responsible for this moment, the then-President Ibrahim Babangida, known as IBB and nicknamed “Evil Genius” by the Nigerian press, has decided to tell his side of the story. But is he telling the truth?
Babangida’s new book, “A Journey in Service,” has drawn a mix of reactions. The launch itself was a flashy affair, with hundreds of thousands of dollars raised from wealthy businesspeople and political heavyweights like Aliko Dangote and Abdulsamad Rabiu. This is a common tradition in Nigeria when it comes to big public events. It’s less about actually buying the book than about showing support, influence or loyalty.
But beyond the high-profile guest list and fanfare, the public response has been more complex. Some people have pointed out how shallow the book feels — more like a PR move than real reflection.
Nevertheless, the memoir has attracted a lot of interest, especially because it has reopened one of Nigeria’s most controversial debates, over the annulment of the election of June 12, 1993. When Babangida canceled the election, he derailed Nigeria’s path to democracy. The fallout was intense, and anger exploded in the streets of Lagos, Ibadan and Kano, with protesters marching defiantly. The military responded with full force. By the time the streets fell silent, over 100 lay dead. Following the annulment, the country was plunged into years of political instability, a brutal military crackdown and the imprisonment and eventual death of the presumed winner, Abiola.
Now, 32 years later, Babangida has tried to explain his decision. Yet, instead of settling the debate, his memoir raises even more questions. This is not unusual; political memoirs play a powerful role in shaping history, with leaders often using them to defend their actions rather than admit to mistakes. Some of these books serve as a way to control the narrative, protect reputations or justify controversial decisions. Instead of offering full transparency, they often leave out key details, raise new questions or rewrite events to suit the author’s perspective. Babangida’s is no exception.
Nigeria gained independence in 1960, but between then and 1998, the country had only 10 years of civilian rule; the rest were dominated by military governments. Gen. Babangida took power in 1985 after overthrowing Muhammadu Buhari in a coup.
Babangida’s rule brought major economic and social changes. He introduced economic reforms, including privatizing public enterprises and opening up Nigeria’s economy to more private sector participation. However, his structural adjustment program, backed by the International Monetary Fund and World Bank, led to the devaluation of the naira, high inflation and soaring unemployment. These harsh economic conditions sparked widespread protests and riots, as many Nigerians struggled to survive.
Although Babangida repealed Buhari’s Decree 4, which had restricted press freedom, his government still clamped down on journalists. One of the darkest moments of his rule came in 1986, when Dele Giwa, a prominent investigative journalist, was assassinated by a letter bomb. Many suspected the government’s involvement, but Babangida denies any role in his book. Despite this denial, the killing remains a lasting stain on his time in power.
“Dele’s death was shocking and mysterious, and people pointed fingers at IBB. As commander in chief, he had the power and resources to get to the bottom of it, but he claimed he wasn’t responsible. The truth is, it was his job to expose those behind it. He had all the security and intelligence at his disposal, yet he didn’t act,” Chido Onumah, a Nigerian blogger, writer and human rights activist told New Lines. “It’s a little too late for him to distance himself,” Onumah said. Almost four decades on from his death, “we still do not know what to believe.”
Giwa’s murder was just one of many dark marks on Babangida’s time in power. But perhaps the most defining moment of his rule came years later, with the annulment of the June 12, 1993, election — the vote that should have made Abiola Nigeria’s president.
Babangida now concedes that Abiola was the rightful winner. “Although I am on record as having stated after the election that Abiola may not have won, upon deeper reflection and a closer examination of all available facts, particularly the detailed election results, which are published as an appendix to this book, there is no doubt that MKO Abiola won the June 12 election,” he writes in his memoir.
He points to the original collated figures from 110 polling booths across the country, showing that Abiola secured 8,128,720 votes and met the constitutional requirement of winning at least one-third of the votes in 28 states.
Yet Babangida’s memoir doesn’t really reveal anything new or particularly honest about Abiola’s victory in 1993. Instead, some are interpreting it as an attempt to rewrite history and safeguard his legacy. Although Babangida admits that Abiola won the election, he frames the annulment as a difficult but necessary decision made under pressure and with limited information. In doing so, he distances himself from full accountability, shifting blame onto vague circumstances and some military figures. He states that the annulment was done by forces within his own administration without his direct approval or knowledge. According to Babangida, the military abruptly halted the announcement of the results and the annulment was carried out by forces within the military led by Gen. Sani Abacha.
“I remember saying: ‘These nefarious ‘inside’ forces opposed to the elections have outflanked me!’ I would later find out that the ‘forces’ led by General Sani Abacha annulled the elections. There and then, I knew I was caught between ‘a devil and the deep blue sea’!! From then on, the June 12 elections took on a painful twist for which, as I will show later, I regrettably take responsibility.”
In the book, Babangida describes intelligence briefings warning of assassinations and plots and suggests that some within the military-industrial establishment were already preparing to undermine the result. Babangida presents himself as cornered, surrounded by conspirators and unable to push through what he now claims was his original plan: to hand over power.
This, however, is seen by some as a careful act of legacy management — one that helps Babangida control how history remembers his role in one of Nigeria’s most defining political chapters. This strategy has not gone unnoticed, with some seeing him as owning the outcome without taking full responsibility.
“The reality is that Babangida was not a victim of circumstances, he was the architect of the crisis,” wrote the columnist Jude Obuseh in the online publication iNigerian. “This is a tired excuse, a revisionist attempt to shift the blame while ignoring his own central role.”
For Abiola’s family, the memoir has only reopened painful wounds. Kola Abiola, his son, speaking on the family’s behalf in a press statement, said the book brought back memories of the tragic events surrounding the annulled election. The family insists that the lessons of June 12 have yet to be learned.
“It took the former military president, Gen. Ibrahim Babangida, an incredibly long 32 years to confirm what the whole world knew all along, that Bashorun M.K.O. Abiola won the 1993 presidential election,” he said.
For the Abiolas, Babangida’s memoir is not just a book — it is a reminder of justice denied and a past that refuses to stay buried. Their pain underscores a larger truth: History in Nigeria, and much of Africa, is often told in fragments, with crucial voices missing or silenced.
“There were so many other families directly affected and lives lost as a result of the annulment, not to mention the profound impact on the unity and economic development of our great country, Nigeria, to this day,” Abiola added.
While Abiola’s family is still grieving that stolen moment in Nigeria’s history, the Abachas aren’t having any of it either. They’ve pushed back strongly against Babangida’s effort to shift the blame for the annulment onto their late father.
“Unfortunately the forces gathered against him after the June 12 elections were so formidable that I was convinced that if he became president, he would be quickly eliminated by the very forces who pretended to be his friends. … I was petrified that if Abiola got killed, it could lead to civil war,’’ Babangida writes in the memoir.
But Abacha’s son Mohammed didn’t hold back. “The decision to annul the election was made under the administration of Gen. Ibrahim Babangida, who was the head of state, held absolute executive powers and was solely responsible for the actions of his government,” he said in a statement.
The family says this is nothing more than an attempt to rewrite history. “Any attempt to shift the blame onto Gen. Sani Abacha, who was a very senior military officer within the regime, is a deliberate distortion of historical facts,” Mohammed added.
Others have joined the criticism. Speaking on “Public Conscience,” a radio show in Nigeria, Okhiria Agbonsuremi, executive director of the nonprofit Progressive Impact Organization for Community Development (Primorg), said the memoir paints a picture of a leader who was not in control. “The content of IBB’s book reveals that he was not the strong leader we thought he was. He comes across as someone who, despite being a military president, could not stand up to his colleagues and assert his decision,” Agbonsuremi said.
For journalists striving to uncover the truth, this culture of silence and revisionism creates a daunting challenge. When leaders dictate the story — or refuse to tell it at all — reporters are left piecing together history from incomplete records, reluctant witnesses and state-controlled narratives. Without firsthand confessions or reliable documentation, the truth becomes elusive, buried beneath layers of propaganda and political convenience. This is the deeper problem. It’s not just that Babangida is telling his version. It’s that so few others have told theirs and, when they do, they rarely do so with honesty.
The journalist Osasu Obayiuwana, who lived through the June 12 crisis, put it plainly. “There’s nothing he’s confessing to that we don’t already know. We know Moshood Abiola won the election. There was no credible excuse for terminating the process. Nigeria spent hundreds of millions of dollars, and because Abiola wasn’t sworn in, we ended up suffering,” Obayiuwana told New Lines.
For him, the issue is bigger than one man’s version of events. “You get one version from the leader, another from historical records, and then the public or witnesses. As a journalist, you have to balance all of them.” That work is made harder in a country where, he says, “we’re not very good record keepers of the past. So even if you want to verify the truth, the materials often just aren’t there.”
Journalists are not the only ones responsible for keeping the truth alive. Scholars also have an important role in making sure history is not just told in a way that benefits those in power. Their research, analysis and historical records help challenge and balance the stories that leaders try to control.
“Political analysts and historians have a duty to dig deep, using every available record and piece of information to tell the true story. We can’t just accept what leaders tell us in their memoirs — especially when they’re trying to twist the past. It’s on us to critically question these narratives and piece together a fuller, more honest history,” Luqman Saka, a professor of political science at the University of Ilorin in Nigeria, told New Lines.
Tendai Moyo, a Zimbabwean asylum-seeker based in New York, has a blunt take on the reluctance of African leaders to write candid memoirs or to write them at all.
Zimbabwe’s former president, Robert Mugabe, ruled for nearly 40 years, in a reign marked by political instability, economic collapse, rampant corruption and brutal human rights abuses. His government carried out forced disappearances, torture and violent crackdowns on opposition figures, cementing his grip on power through fear and repression. Yet, despite presiding over some of the darkest chapters in Zimbabwe’s history, Mugabe never wrote a tell-all memoir, and his silence remains telling.
“The problem isn’t just fear of backlash — it’s that many of these leaders don’t actually believe they did anything wrong,” Moyo said. “Look at Mugabe, look at [Ugandan President] Yoweri Museveni. They see themselves as visionaries who were misunderstood, not as men who destroyed economies or silenced opposition. Why would they confess when they still think they were right?”
Mugabe took his silence to the grave, leaving history to piece together what he never said. But Ellen Johnson Sirleaf chose a different path. Africa’s first elected female head of state didn’t shy away from telling her story. In “This Child Will Be Great,” she laid bare her journey to power, the battles she fought and the mistakes she made, including her early support for Charles Taylor, the former Liberian president and convicted war criminal. And yet some saw Sirleaf’s memoir as an imperfect reckoning.
“Her book felt guarded,” wrote Ruthie Ackerman, a writer at Louise Blouin Media, writing for Forbes. “When Doe’s soldiers come to round her up for betraying their leader, shooting into the air outside her house while her mother prays desperately inside, Sirleaf said she was ‘calm, very calm,’ as if by admitting to feeling fear she would be viewed as less of a leader. My diagnosis is that she feels she must present herself as strong in order to prove herself as a woman, a thought that leaves me feeling saddened.”
While some leaders confront their past, few use their stories to teach and heal. South Africa’s Nelson Mandela did just that. He did what so many leaders refused to do: He told the truth. “Long Walk to Freedom” isn’t just a memoir; it’s a testament to resilience, sacrifice and the unbreakable spirit of a man who changed history. While others buried their pasts in silence or half-truths, Mandela laid his bare.
“He didn’t just write about the fight against apartheid — he owned his mistakes, his doubts, and his weakest moments. From his childhood to all those years in prison, he wasn’t trying to rewrite history to make himself look good. He wanted to make sure history was never forgotten,” Obayiuwana said.
For many leaders, writing a candid memoir isn’t just about telling their side of a historical story — it’s a risk. The political and legal consequences of revealing too much can be severe. A former president admitting to election-rigging or human rights abuses could open the door to prosecution, exile or even retribution from political rivals. Some leaders would rather take their secrets to the grave than wear them openly.
And it’s not just about the leaders themselves. The risk stretches beyond the individual. If a former president is in exile — or, worse, no longer alive — the people who served alongside him, who executed decisions or carried out orders, are still very much within reach. In some parts of the world, telling your political story can put lives and legacies on the line.
“To be fair, Sirleaf must have been up against a wall. Many of the people she writes about are still alive, and some have the power to make her life, and her task as a leader, more difficult,” Ackerman explained. “There are a slew of former warlords who have been elected to her cabinet, and if she says the wrong thing or makes the wrong move, they will be ready to pounce. In the end, she is forced to keep them happy and avoid riling them up in order to lead her country effectively.”
But beyond fear of fallout, there’s also the question of culture. In some societies, silence is seen as wisdom and discretion as strength. A leader who keeps quiet about the past might be viewed as dignified rather than deceptive. Unlike in the West, where confessional memoirs are often expected, in some African political traditions — which are as diverse as the continent, with its 54 countries, is vast — speaking too openly can be seen as reckless or even shameful.
In some countries, reopening old wounds isn’t seen as a path to healing but as a threat to fragile national unity. Leaders may fear that revisiting past wrongs could ignite fresh conflict or stir resentment that hasn’t fully settled. So instead, they let sleeping dogs lie — even if those dogs are sitting on decades of truth.
And then there’s the bigger picture: national identity. The stories leaders choose to tell, or not tell, shape how a country sees its own history. When key moments are left out or rewritten, entire generations grow up with a version of the past that serves those in power. Without honest accounts, the lessons of history are lost, leaving societies stuck in cycles of denial and repetition.
“When it comes to political memoirs, especially those by African leaders, the focus isn’t really on truth — it’s about shaping a story that protects their image,” Toyin Falola, a Nigerian historian and extraordinary professor of political science at the University of Pretoria, told New Lines.
“A memoir is an act of propaganda. It’s about shaping people’s opinion of you. And in that, it’s inherently dishonest. … These books are carefully crafted to make leaders look like heroes, often glossing over their mistakes and rewriting history to make themselves come out on top,” Falola said.
Babangida’s memoir shows how those in power can shape historical narratives to serve their own interests. Rather than fully confronting past actions, he attempts to present a version of history that aligns with his perspective. This practice of rewriting history reflects a broader tendency among some African leaders to exert control over their legacies.
When leaders fail to acknowledge their past actions, it leaves significant gaps in the historical record. These gaps hinder the public’s understanding of key events and can distort the collective memory of a nation. The long-term effects are clear: A fractured understanding of history can prevent reconciliation and undermine efforts to move forward as a unified society.
As an African proverb goes, “Until the spider weaves its own tale, the story will always glorify the fly.”
The only way a country can move forward and heal is by being honest about its past. That’s how history can be told fairly — for everyone.
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