By Abdul Oroh
At the height of his absolute power, General Ibrahim Babangida made it known, both in words and deeds, that he was a man who craved a space in the history of Nigeria as a soldier-statesman—the creator of a new socio-economic and political order, albeit unmerited, except in infamy. When Babangida ousted Major General Muhammadu Buhari in a palace coup in 1985, he sold a dummy to the Nigerian people that he was a reformer who came to salvage Nigeria from the catastrophe and political debacle of the past.
Nigerians saw a gap-toothed, smiling face, solemn in a manner of speaking, purportedly popular in the barracks among the junior officers and sincere in his promises, which, on the surface, were attractive. But after eight years of bloodletting and chaos, he ended like his contemporaries in Africa: Idi Amin of Uganda, Emperor Jean-Bédel Bokassa of the Central African Republic, Mobutu Sese Seko of Zaire (Democratic Republic of Congo), and many other African tyrants who ended their reign in ignominy.
When Babangida, who was then and now more known as IBB, was asked in one of his numerous interviews who his heroes were as he celebrated his cravings as Prince of the Niger—a hollow conferment by his corrupted hagiographers—he compared himself with Hannibal, the Carthaginian general and statesman, and King Shaka of the Zulus. He gushed out immodestly: “We are not just in government, we are in power.” In another infamous statement, he warned that nobody should take the human rights policy of his government as a sign of “weakness.” He might have added that he would be in power forever and would be as powerful as he wanted to be.
After all, did he not proclaim himself President when he ousted the Buhari draconian regime, though he was not an elected president? A break from previous military rulers? Was that not a conscious decision with a whiff of totalitarian aspiration?
Like every other step he took in his eight-year plutocracy, Babangida left everyone guessing about his objective or ultimate goal. He fooled Nigerians many times over, but as we say in Nigeria, many days are for the thief, but one day is for the owner of the property.
As his paid hagiographers, whom he had plucked from a crippled academia, celebrated his cunning, manipulative, and crooked dispositions with glee, he waxed stronger—conjuring, like a magician, every scheme of deception, justifying every cunning move, every predatory raid on the Central Bank, every plundering of natural resources like oil wells, national parastatals, or construction contract scams, every massacre of students, every execution of friends and foes alike, every shift in the political terrain, even if they were patently against the will and interest of the Nigerian people. These were all recorded in his favour while he wallowed in glory.
When General Babangida unfolded the transition programme in 1985, he promised that he would hand over in 1992 but made it clear that the military would control and supervise it. The Nigerian people were generally optimistic that their democratic aspirations had not been completely crushed by the military elite that had placed itself above the people. The Buhari regime had not given such hope.
Babangida had taken some corrective measures that gave the impression that he was not only aware of the need to turn over governance to a democratically elected government but had also taken steps to address the perpetual problem of failure to conduct generally acceptable elections in the country. His economic agenda, prescribed by the World Bank and IMF—the Structural Adjustment Programme—was not to be challenged or criticised. It had no alternative, Nigerians were told.
In 1985, Babangida gave the impression that he would correct the failings of the civilian administration. Many Nigerians thought it was the right step to take after the ouster of the autocratic regime of General Buhari, which had no agenda to transfer power to civilians, except for the War Against Indiscipline (WAI) that it fought for the 18 months the regime lasted.
However, the transition had been shifted several times, and almost eight years down the road, Nigerians were still hopeful that the military would soon see the need to respect the people and their democratic aspirations. As Babangida continued to shift the transition dates and juggled the teleguided programme on the ground that they were looking for new breed politicians to replace the junta, it became clearer that the military junta had long-term plans to stay in power.
The creation of new states, the frequent dissolution of state organs, and the reshuffling of his cabinet and state governments were all part of the elaborate scheme to buy time and prolong the transition agenda. In what was clearly a glimpse into his political direction, he said in one of his speeches, while paraphrasing Frantz Fanon, that it was the lot of his generation to discover the mission of national rebirth and not to betray it. But, like a Freudian slip, he revealed that the military would be the “fountainhead” of the new order.
In other words, a culture of militarism was his ultimate goal. “This administration,” he said with the finality of the Almighty, “intends to supervise political succession as the baton of power passes from one person to the other.” The civilian political elite, too desperate to replace the military, took no notice of the implication of the statement. Neither did they have the nerve to challenge the junta’s deception. They played along, hoping that someday the table would turn.
Babangida had hired and settled some of Nigeria’s foremost right-wing intellectuals to embrace his sordid plan, and they spared no cost, nor did they care about their esteemed intellectual prowess and personal integrity as they tried to rebrand and venerate the tyrant as a benevolent dictator, a reformist, the Prince of the Niger who was determined to transform the Giant of Africa into an El Dorado.
The junta’s socio-economic programmes were coloured in absolute terms as the only way, the only path, without alternatives. Any attempt to propose alternatives was repressed, as alternative opinions were seen as sabotage. A decree was established to create a military tribunal to try saboteurs, while the press faced summary punishment as newspaper houses were routinely closed and journalists detained.
Between May 23–31, 1989, anti-SAP riots broke out. Protests against the Structural Adjustment Programme (SAP) swept across tertiary institutions all over the country, with over 100 students killed by security forces, comprising police and soldiers. The junta had tasted the fury of Nigerian youths; it became clear that it would be challenged by force if it continued to manipulate the transition programme amid harsh economic conditions dictated by the International Monetary Fund (IMF).
The credibility of the junta had been tested, and Nigerians began to mobilise and declare an end to military rule, as it was not an antidote to bad governance, indiscipline, and corruption—the very justifications for ousting the civilian administration in 1983.
At the winter of his life, Babangida has not let go. The recent publication of his autobiography, A Journey in Service, as expected, has aroused public angst and controversy. Not surprisingly, he failed to reconcile with history—still dreaming of redemption without penitence, without embracing the truth, without confronting his demons that controlled him and are still controlling him, to plead to be freed of his vices, to repent from his crimes, and to atone for his bloodlust.
Babangida did not realise early enough that his time was up and that Nigerians would challenge his authoritarian drift. He believed every Nigerian had a price and that, with adequate settlement, he could bribe his way through every roadblock or checkpoint. The easier path, as Ike Okonta once said, was to “democratise corruption.” The more difficult path was, like a thief—which he was, literally—to escape into a life of affluence, bequeathing a horrid legacy of a “corrupted democracy” and a culture of impunity, predation, and militarism.
He has lived a long life—the old age he denied many of his peers, friends, and foes alike. May God forgive him.
