Growing up in Nigeria during the reign of Ibrahim Badamasi Babangida was an experience deeply etched in my memory. His rise to power in 1985, following a coup against Muhammadu Buhari, coincided with my time at university. Both men, through their military interventions, had disrupted a nation that once felt promising, snatching away the last remnants of a childhood that ended abruptly on December 31, 1983, when Buhari first took over.
Back then, my personal struggles revolved around getting into university, navigating a system where even stellar JAMB scores weren’t a guarantee of admission. The University of Nigeria’s Law and Medical schools were notoriously competitive, and after missing out, my father pushed me towards alternative institutions, including King’s College, Lagos, and Government College Umuahia. I resisted. I longed for a more diverse experience, one where feminine presence softened the rigid, all-boys boarding school upbringing I had endured.
Yet, beyond my personal world, Nigeria itself was at a crossroads. The economy was slipping, and President Shagari’s administration struggled with corruption and financial mismanagement. The infamous 1983 election had been marred by rigging, but Shagari was at least beginning to take real steps to address the nation’s problems—until Babangida and Buhari decided otherwise. Their coup dismantled a democracy, however flawed, and set the stage for years of military rule that would shape an entire generation’s perception of power, governance, and survival.
Buhari’s rule was marked by rigid discipline, but also by an iron-fisted approach that dehumanized Nigerians. The so-called War Against Indiscipline turned the country into a giant military barracks, where soldiers brutalized civilians for infractions as minor as being late to work. I still recall the humiliation of civil servants forced to sit on the ground at government offices, berated by armed subordinates.
But while Buhari ruled with an iron hand, Babangida played the long game. As Chief of Army Staff, he held the military’s loyalty, waiting for his moment. In August 1985, he seized power, and Nigeria entered what can only be described as an era of deception, wealth accumulation, and systemic decay. Under Babangida’s leadership, the cost of living skyrocketed. As university students, we bore the brunt of his policies—rising tuition, harsh economic reforms, and the ever-present tension of a nation in turmoil.
I remember returning home from university in 1986, sitting at the breakfast table, and casually asking for jam to go with my bread. My father erupted in anger. “Jam? Do you think this is still the Nigeria you grew up in?” His words stung, but he was right. The country was changing, and not for the better. The IMF-backed Structural Adjustment Program (SAP) introduced under Babangida deepened economic hardship. Protests erupted across campuses—first in 1986, then in 1988, and again in 1989. Students were shot, beaten, and silenced, but we kept fighting.
Then came the betrayals: the execution of Mamman Vatsa, the murder of journalist Dele Giwa via a letter bomb, and the orchestration of political unrest that culminated in the annulment of the June 12, 1993, presidential election—the closest Nigeria had come to a true democratic transition. Babangida’s decision to “step aside” in the face of national outrage was anything but graceful. It was the final chapter of a regime built on manipulation, where power was maintained through bribery or elimination.
Now, decades later, Babangida has resurfaced, basking in the adulation of Nigeria’s elite at the launch of his memoir. Billions were poured into this celebration, a grand rewriting of history by those who profited from his rule. But for those of us who lived through it, the truth remains clear: Babangida was no benevolent leader. He was the architect of modern Nigeria’s dysfunction, a man whose legacy is built on lost dreams, economic ruin, and a democracy that has never quite recovered.
As he steps out once more, surrounded by those who continue to loot the nation, the question lingers—how much longer will we allow history to be rewritten?
