Editorial: The Unedifying Afterlife of Obasanjo and Atiku

There is a peculiar species of post-governmental pathology that infects the retired statesmen of the developing world, wherein the dignity of former high office is systematically bartered for the cheap thrills of a schoolyard brawl. In Nigeria, this affliction has found its ultimate expression in the ongoing, decades-long mud-wrestling match between Chief Olusegun Obasanjo and Alhaji Atiku Abubakar. That these two septuagenarians; one a former two-term President, the other his serial Vice President, should choose the public square to rehearse their ancient, curdled resentments is more than embarrassing; it is a profound disservice to a nation desperate for mature leadership. With the pedantic gravity of a schoolmaster who has forgotten his lesson plan, Obasanjo says choosing Atiku as his running mate in 1999 was his greatest mistake. Atiku replies that he chose Nigeria and democracy over Obasanjo. Somewhere between the two boasts lies the sad spectacle: two men who once wielded extraordinary power now deploying their considerable reputations to settle an extraordinarily personal score. It is petty, unbecoming, and, for men of their experience, it is remarkably unedifying.

Obasanjo is perfectly entitled to regret his political choices. Presidents are allowed mistakes; indeed, Obasanjo himself sensibly concedes that no active leader can govern without making them. But there is a difference between historical reflection and repeatedly reopening an old matrimonial quarrel before the entire nation. Calling Atiku the greatest mistake of his presidency is rhetorically and historically lazy. A presidency that lasted eight years, survived constitutional crises, pursued economic reforms, witnessed spectacular political controversies and generated a substantial catalogue of its own triumphs and failures cannot seriously be reduced to the identity of its vice-president. And if Atiku was such an unmitigated political catastrophe, one might ask the obvious question: who selected him, and why? To blame one's own hand-picked deputy for one's governance failures a quarter of a century after the fact is not a sign of rigorous self-reflection; it is a confession of poor judgment masquerading as a grievance.

Atiku's answer is no more admirable. Not to be outdone in the theater of the petty, Atiku rushed to his own defense with a rhetorical counter-offensive that was as grandiose as it was predictable. Cloaking his response in the high-minded vocabulary of constitutional piety, Atiku claimed he chose "Nigeria and democracy" over his former boss. He dutifully dusted off the third-term agenda; and wore Obasanjo's bitterness as a "badge of honour." For good measure, Atiku treated the public to a touching, if highly transactional, laundry list of how he allegedly "clothed" and "cared for" Obasanjo: supporting his family during imprisonment, helping him recover after release, mobilizing political structures, building alliances and contributing to his emergence in 1999. All of that may be true, but the sublime heights of statecraft should not be abandoned for a public audit of who bought whose trousers in 1998.

“I helped make you president” is not a constitutional argument, and “I made you vice-president” is not a moral absolution. The two men appear to be conducting an archaeological excavation of their grievances, each carefully selecting fossils that flatter his own historical importance. OBJ remembers the deputy who disappointed him. Atiku remembers the friend he rescued. Both remember their virtues with photographic clarity and the other's shortcomings with forensic precision. What neither seems sufficiently interested in remembering is the Nigerian public. That is the real scandal. The tragedy of this performance lies not in its comedy, but in its pedagogy. Nigeria is a country where more than half the population was unborn when these two men first took office. The younger generation of politicians, watching this endless, bitter loop, are being taught that statecraft is merely an extension of personal vendetta. When leaders of such immense historical weight treat national governance as a backdrop for an unresolved domestic dispute, they legitimize the very cynicism that hollows out democratic institutions. If the authors of the 1999 democratic transition cannot model basic civility, on what structural foundation can their successors possibly build?
These are not retired businessmen quarrelling over a failed joint venture. They are former President and former Vice-President of the Federal Republic of Nigeria. Their words carry historical weight because millions of Nigerians entrusted them with the republic. Younger politicians are watching. And what lesson are they receiving? That political disagreements should be preserved for decades, periodically reheated and served to the public whenever electoral circumstances become convenient? That yesterday's ally should eventually become today's villain? That the dignity of high office survives perfectly well after office, provided one has a sufficiently large microphone? This is precisely the wrong civic education.

There is an especially unfortunate timing to the spectacle. Atiku is now the African Democratic Congress presidential candidate for 2027. Obasanjo's renewed criticisms therefore inevitably acquire political significance, however much either man might insist that they are merely reflections on history. The suggestion that the timing is therefore politically meaningful is an allegation, not an established fact. But the optics are difficult to ignore. When an old quarrel suddenly becomes newly eloquent around an election season, Nigerians are entitled to suspect that history has acquired an electoral calendar. Yet both men should know better. Obasanjo's legacy is considerably larger than his quarrel with Atiku. Atiku's political career is considerably larger than his quarrel with Obasanjo. Why reduce two complicated historical careers to a duel of wounded egos?

The answer, unfortunately, may be human nature. Power leaves scars. Political betrayal is remembered longer than political friendship. Men who once commanded armies of followers can find retirement surprisingly quiet. The temptation to re-enter the national conversation by reopening old wounds must be formidable. But statesmanship consists partly in knowing when not to indulge the temptation. There is also a substantive point beneath the theatre. Atiku is entitled to say that he opposed the third-term project. Obasanjo is entitled to dispute Atiku's recollection of their political relationship. Allegations concerning bribery, political conspiracies and misconduct should, however, be treated with particular care. Claims are not convictions; allegations are not judicial findings; and repetition is not evidence.

If there is documentary evidence, publish it. If there is a court judgment, cite it. If there is neither, political memoir should not be allowed to masquerade as jurisprudence. That standard applies equally to both men. Nigeria's younger politicians need something better from their elders than a masterclass in grievance management. They need examples of how powerful men disagree without converting disagreement into permanent vendetta; how former officeholders can criticize successors without settling old accounts; and how public memory can accommodate complexity without becoming a warehouse for personal resentment.

Obasanjo and Atiku have both served Nigeria at the highest level. They therefore possess something most politicians desperately seek and almost none achieve: a place in history already secured. They should stop behaving as though history might forget who offended whom in 2003. The country has more urgent problems. And if two former leaders cannot demonstrate the discipline to leave their personal quarrels out of the public square, they should not be surprised when the younger generation concludes that politics is merely adolescence with motorcades. Nigeria deserves elders who have outgrown their grudges, not statesmen still litigating them. If they must insist on taking their personal differences into the public space, they should at least spare the nation the pretense that they are fighting for its soul. They are fighting for their own vanities, and in doing so, they prove that while they may have left the palace, the palace's worst politics have never left them.