The autobiographies and the history that cannot be controlled

BY OGUNGBILE EMMANUEL OLUDOTUN

I have read a lot. Despite my relatively young age, I have devoured an impressive number of autobiographies, particularly those written by Nigerian politicians. From the memoirs of Nigeria’s founding fathers to the self-serving narratives of today’s leaders, I have sought out every political autobiography I could find, spanning from 1960 to the present day. Each book, in its own way, has provided a window into the mind of its author, revealing not only their version of history but also the ways in which they attempt to control their own legacies.

In Nigeria, political autobiographies are not merely personal recollections but calculated instruments of narrative control. They serve as platforms for rewriting history, shaping public perception, and constructing legacies that favour their authors. However, no matter how carefully crafted, these books often fail to suppress the truth, as history has a way of resisting manipulation.

The earliest Nigerian political autobiographies were written by key figures in the country’s independence movement and post-independence leadership. Books such as My Odyssey (1971) by Nnamdi Azikiwe, Awo: The Autobiography of Chief Awolowo (1960s), and My Life (1962) by Ahmadu Bello were groundbreaking. They not only documented personal histories but also provided insight into the complex political struggles of their time.

Yet, even these works were not free from bias. They positioned their authors as visionaries whose actions were always in Nigeria’s ‘best interest’. Shehu Shagari’s Beckoned to Serve (2001) painted his leadership as one of sacrifice and commitment but conveniently downplayed the economic mismanagement and political instability that led to his ouster in the 1983 coup. Again, Chief Obasanjo’s My Command (1980), a military memoir about the Nigerian Civil War, was widely criticised for presenting a one-sided view that downplayed the sufferings of the Biafran people while portraying him as a strategic mastermind. His later trilogy, My Watch (2014), continued this pattern, attempting to justify his controversial political actions, including his failed third-term bid.

Creatively, the 21st century has seen a surge in Nigerian political autobiographies, with many former presidents, military rulers, and political elites eager to hurriedly put down their own versions of history. Unfortunately, rather than providing honest reflections, most of these books resemble public relations campaigns disguised as memoirs.

Something not far from this is the Goodluck Jonathan’s My Transition Hours (2018). While the former president rightfully took credit for conceding defeat in Nigeria’s first democratic transfer of power, he largely sidestepped his administration’s failures, particularly in handling Boko Haram and the corruption scandals that tainted his tenure. Similarly, Chief Bisi Akande’s My Participations (2021) provided a revisionist account of the political intrigues that led to the formation of the All Progressives Congress (APC). He portrayed himself as an honest broker, yet critics pointed out the book’s omissions regarding betrayals and compromises that shaped Nigeria’s contemporary political landscape.

Even more, not all Nigerian political autobiographies are exercises in self-glorification. Adewale Ademoyega’s Why We Struck: The Story of the First Nigerian Coup (1981) stands out as an unflinching account of the events leading up to the country’s first military coup in 1966. Unlike many other political memoirs, Why We Struck is unapologetic and brutally honest about the failures of Nigeria’s First Republic. However, even this book has been accused of selective narration.

While Ademoyega and his fellow coup plotters justified their actions as an attempt to rid Nigeria of corruption and ethnic favoritism, the coup itself deepened ethnic divisions and ultimately led to civil war. The book, like many others, presents its author as a patriot while downplaying the unintended consequences of their actions.

The newest and perhaps most controversial addition to Nigerian political autobiographies is Ibrahim Babangida’s A Journey in Service (2025). With over 400 pages, the book promises to offer insights into the life and times of Nigeria’s longest-serving military ruler. However, early critics argue that it glosses over some of the most contentious aspects of his rule.

For instance, Babangida finally admits in A Journey in Service that Moshood Abiola won the June 12, 1993, election, widely regarded as Nigeria’s freest and fairest election. However, his justification for annulling the results remains vague. He claims it was done in “national interest,” but he avoids addressing the real incident that led to the decision and the political chaos that followed.

Moreso , his handling of the Structural Adjustment Program (SAP), which plunged millions of Nigerians into poverty, is barely scrutinized. Instead of taking responsibility for its devastating impact, Babangida shifts the blame to economic circumstances beyond his control. The book also sidesteps discussions on the high-profile assassinations under his regime, including that of journalist Dele Giwa, and offers a feeble justification for the execution of his childhood friend, General Mamman Vatsa, depicting it as a “necessary evil” rather than a tragic betrayal.

Instead of confronting these difficult truths, A Journey in Service frames Babangida as a misunderstood leader who always had Nigeria’s best interests at heart. Like many Nigerian political autobiographies before it, the book attempts to rewrite history rather than engage with it honestly.

Political autobiographies in Nigeria rarely contain genuine reflections on corruption, mismanagement, or betrayal. Instead, they follow a predictable pattern: self-praise, blame-shifting, and historical distortion. First, the authors present themselves as visionary leaders whose good intentions were misunderstood. Second, they shift responsibility for their failures onto external forces, whether opposition parties, foreign influences, or disloyal aides. Finally, they carefully reframe controversial events to suit their desired legacy rather than providing an objective account of history.

However, Nigerians are not easily deceived. While these books generate media buzz upon release, the public often dismisses them as attempts at historical revisionism. Nigerians rely on lived experiences rather than self-serving memoirs to judge their leaders.

Hence, from the carefully curated narratives of Obasanjo and Jonathan to Babangida’s attempt at reshaping his legacy in A Journey in Service, these books reveal more about the authors’ desire to control history than about the realities of their leadership.

If Nigerian politicians and other “friends in leadership” were truly accountable, they wouldn’t need 400-page books to justify their actions, their records would speak for them. Until then, Nigerian readers will continue to approach these autobiographies with skepticism, reading between the lines to uncover the truths that politicians fail to tell.

Ogungbile Emmanuel Oludotun can be contacted via [email protected]