IT feels good to write again.
For weeks, VOICE has been silent on News Point Nigeria, and so have I. But absence, as they say, is not always disappearance. Sometimes it is reflection.
Sometimes it is watching the world swirl into moments you don’t yet have the words for. And sometimes, it is the simple ache of exhaustion; emotional, intellectual, spiritual.
But now, VOICE is back. Not because everything is better, but because the silence has grown heavier than the noise. And today, I must ask a question that has lingered in my chest: Do we have to die first to be truly seen, truly heard, and truly valued?
When former President Muhammadu Buhari passed, the air in Nigeria shifted. Not with thunder, not with protest, but with a peculiar silence, a hush that falls when something larger than politics, pain or party lines has occurred. I paused. I didn’t cry. I didn’t rejoice. I simply… paused.
This was a man whose name, during his presidency, invoked anger, hunger, frustration, and even hopelessness in many. We queued for fuel, for cash, for visas. We waited for answers. For hope. And what we got instead was silence.
A long, cold silence that echoed from Aso Rock into every home and every heart.
And we blamed him. Loudly. We criticized him. Relentlessly. We held him to account as citizens should.
But the moment he died, something strange happened: that same voice that had raged against him, whispered prayers. That same mouth that had cursed his leadership, sang his praises. The same Nigeria that once called him a failure began to call him a patriot, a father, a hero.
Why?
Why do we save our kindest words for after death?
It’s not just Buhari. This strange habit, this national amnesia wrapped in mourning cloth has become a pattern. We saw it again with the passing of Alhaji Aminu Dantata, a man who gave so much and asked for so little.
A towering figure in Northern Nigeria, known more in quiet circles than in headlines. His death barely made noise in a country where noise is cheap. But those who knew really felt the weight of his exit.
We have also seen the same wave of late reverence following the death of figures like Ọba Sikiru Kayọde Adetọna, the Awujale of Ijebuland, and many others who shaped our national consciousness in ways that only become clear in their absence.
Why is it that we find such clarity at gravesides? Why do our tongues find restraint only after the final breath?
Let me be clear: this is not about whitewashing failure. Buhari’s record remains what it is flawed and controversial. We should not erase critique in the name of courtesy.
But what I am realizing what grief keeps teaching me is that people are more than their office, their errors, or even their intentions.
Every person whether a president or a pauper eventually becomes a story. And when they do, we are faced with a choice: we either tell the truth with balance and grace, or we tell it with bitterness and distortion.
Either way, we shape how history remembers them and how we remember ourselves.
Let me not pretend to be above it all. I, too, have held grudges longer than necessary. I, too, have waited until a funeral to remember the softness in someone’s voice or the generosity in their actions.
I have buried apologies with the dead. And now I wonder: how many more will I eulogize with regret instead of gratitude?
We wait too long. We postpone kindness. We hoard compassion like it’s gold and ration forgiveness like it’s scarce. Why?
Because maybe it’s easier to honor the dead than to embrace the complexity of the living. The living argue back. The living disappoint. The living remind us that heroes are also human, that strength can walk with weakness, and that no one is ever entirely good or entirely bad.
What if we gave people their flowers before the obituary? What if we told our parents, mentors, friends, even our leaders, the ones we believe have failed us that we see them, we acknowledge their efforts (however flawed), and we hold space for the fullness of their stories?
What if we critiqued with clarity, but also with care?
What if we stopped measuring a person’s worth by how silent we become after their death, and started doing the harder thing: speaking truth with love while they can still hear it?
VOICE Has Cleared Its Throat
This column, this space VOICE has always been a place of boldness. It is not a place of perfection. It is not here to flatter or to incite. It is here to ask hard questions. To reflect. To tell the truth, imperfect, and necessary.
I am back. And VOICE is awake again.
So, let’s ask ourselves again and this time, let’s not look away:
Do we really have to die first to be remembered for our light?
- Kabara, is a writer and public commentator. Her syndicated column, Voice, appears on News Point Nigeria newspaper on Mondays. She can be reached on hafceekay01@gmail.com