AS a student of History, I have always believed that the past deserves to be documented—not because we cannot move on, but because future generations deserve to understand where we came from and why we are where we are.
That conviction is precisely why I find the latest controversy surrounding a memoir by a former Department of State Services (DSS) official rather unsettling.
Nearly three decades after the death of former Head of State, General Sani Abacha, Nigerians are once again debating not what he did for or to the country, not the policies that shaped his administration, not the political climate of his regime, and not the lessons Nigeria ought to learn from that era. Instead, public discourse has been consumed by a graphic account of how he allegedly died. A newly released memoir claims that the late military ruler suffered cardiac arrest during an intimate encounter, and, predictably, social media has erupted.
I cannot help but ask: to what end? What exactly are we trying to achieve?
Will this revelation reduce the price of petrol? Will it make foodstuffs cheaper? Will it stop bandits from invading villages? Will it end the long queues at our hospitals? Will it create jobs for graduates struggling to find employment?
Or is this simply another national distraction dressed up as “history”?
History ought to educate, enlighten and provoke thoughtful reflection. It should challenge established narratives where necessary, encourage deeper understanding and help societies make sense of their past. What it should never become is a marketplace for sensationalism.
If the author’s intention was to document an important chapter of General Abacha’s years in power, there were countless meaningful conversations that deserved attention. Nigerians already know who Abacha was. History has, in many respects, rendered its judgment on his years in office. His leadership style, his relationship with Nigeria’s democratic journey, the economic realities of his administration, the security architecture of the period and the controversies that defined his government remain subjects worthy of rigorous historical examination.
Even if one wished to discuss the circumstances surrounding his death, it would have been sufficient to acknowledge that the events remain disputed before proceeding to the broader historical narrative. Whether General Abacha died in a hospital bed, on a treadmill or in the arms of a woman changes very little about the Nigeria he left behind or the legacy of his administration.
What baffled me even more was watching respected analysts on national television discuss the matter almost with amusement. I had expected conversations about the historical significance of the memoir, the evolution of Nigeria’s intelligence community, the institutional lessons contained in the book, or what it contributes to our understanding of governance, national security and statecraft.
Instead, much of the discussion drifted towards sensational details surrounding a man who has been dead for nearly three decades.
Death is the final court every human being must eventually face. Whatever judgment awaits General Sani Abacha is no longer in the hands of journalists, politicians, commentators or former intelligence officers. That judgment rests solely between him and his Creator.
Dragging intimate details of his final moments into the public square almost three decades after his passing serves very little purpose beyond feeding society’s growing appetite for sensational stories.
Ironically, the chapter or section dealing with General Abacha’s death represents only one episode among many contained in the memoir. Yet it has become the dominant headline—not because the entire book is about Abacha, but because it offers the most sensational revelation.
That, perhaps, says as much about us as readers as it does about the author.
When history becomes little more than sensational headlines carefully designed to provoke curiosity and generate publicity, it gradually loses much of its educational value.
If this memoir truly contains decades of rare insights into Nigeria’s intelligence architecture, intelligence operations, institutional development and national security, why has virtually every conversation been reduced to one man’s alleged bedroom death?
Have we, as readers and consumers of information, become so addicted to sensationalism that we now overlook the far more valuable historical contributions contained within such publications?
Nigeria has no shortage of urgent national conversations. We face enormous challenges in governance, security, education, healthcare, economic development and national cohesion. These are issues that demand serious reflection and informed historical analysis.
We owe ourselves histories that enlighten rather than merely entertain. We deserve books that deepen our understanding of our institutions, our leaders and our collective journey not narratives that become famous primarily because they dwell on controversy.
It is therefore unfortunate that what could have stood as an important contribution to Nigeria’s intelligence history has instead been overshadowed by a single sensational claim. That reality says something not only about the choices made by the author, but also about the kind of public conversations we increasingly reward.
History deserves better. And, ultimately, so does Nigeria.
Voice, just cleared its throat!
- Kabara is a writer and public commentator. Her syndicated column, Voice, appears in News Point Nigeria newspaper on Monday. She can be reached at hafceekay01@gmail.com.