In 2023, I cast my vote for Tinubu, eyes wide open, heart half-hoping. Yet now, I confess— he has let me down. I knew it wasn’t the Yoruba’s turn. I saw the arrogance in Emilokan — a brazen affront to equity’s call. Still, I backed him. I backed him after rooting for Amaechi in the APC primaries. Peter Obi was good but his vehicle, I thought, lacked the wheels to roll up the northern hills.

I chose Tinubu, believing he’d seen it all— bored of petty political squabbles, weary of conquests that consume time and soul, development and country — and could only seek true heroism. I imagined his twilight years, devoted to chasing posterity’s nod, not power’s fleeting thrill, not indulging the likes of Akpabio, Wike and Orji Kalu, not ego tripping.

I chose Tinubu though his warts were many. Because I saw in him a gravitas to make earth- shaking and course rectifying choices. Nigeria craved transformative leadership, a steely will to tame the winds of entrenched interests and embrace merit stubbornly. His NADECO battles, his years of defying the PDP’s titan grip—these, I thought, would count. I thought they would forge a true master strategist.

I pinned my hopes on Tinubu, the talent- hunter, envisioning a cabinet aglow with Nigeria’s brightest stars. Because the task was arduous and hope had dimmed. I remembered the other cabinet in Lagos , one that had Fashola, Osinbajo, Akabueze, Wale Edun—minds that gleamed with promise. The occasion demanded competence, capacity and character. The political agberos, those peddlers of grime, I believed, would be left to scavenge in the motor parks of recompense, not ushered into power’s sacred halls to defile hope’s altar. But I was wrong.

Tinubuhadtasted oppression and endured a lifeinforced exile. His distant past might be nebulous but he was one of the few that spoke the tongue of tomorrow at the onset of the fourth republic. True federalism. Devolution of power. Constitutional democracy. Freedom. His politics might be authoritarian, but how else could a fragile opposition have survived the tide of the rapaciousPDP.IadmitthatI overlookedhis excesses. He fought Obasanjo, wove a national party from threads of ambition and myth. Surely, he carried the acumen to lead. Critics would say they warned. I accept the burden of my choice.

He wasn’t Buhari, cloaked in ascetic restraint, and protected by a default Bakwomi disposition. Tinubu was a wheeling and dealing politician who wouldn’t have the luxury of any sanctimonious robes. But at the edge of 80, I prayed Tinubu had tired of personal aggrandizement, of piling wealth, of fending for cronies. I knew his anti- corruption stance was shaky, rumors swirling like dust. Yet I hoped he would lead by example, shedding old skins for a new legacy. Sometimes this optimism, this sort of gambling is better than cynical retreat into an ideological bubble, into unrealistic puritanism.

So, I voted with eyes open, a flicker of trepidation in my chest. I whispered to friends: if Tinubu wins and relapses into Babasopecracy in Abuja, we’d have a Mobutu. Still, I gambled he’d exhausted his fantasies, his gaze fixed on history, not power’s fleeting mask. I never dreamed he’d chase Mandela’s shadow by running like Adedibu. But I was wrong. I had credited him with a keener sense of time’s judgment.

Tinubu let me down from the start.

I had stood by my polling booth, waiting for the votes to be tallied. I had given him mine , he had promised me hope. I waited. He lost my booth. Then the presiding officer started to fumble. He couldn’t upload the results. That was how INEC’s glitch snatched the election’s integrity. When Tinubu was declared winner, I waited for a balm— a fervent promise of electoral reforms to soothe the nation’s wounds. Instead, “Go to court” became the hymn, pompous and deaf to unity ’s cry. Victorious but not magnanimous, his followers fanned the flame of division in Lagos, wielding Oro and other diabolical ploys.

By March 18, 2023, Lagos
had unraveled. Igbo voters were chased from polling units, anti-Igbo venom spread by voices like MC Oluomo and Bayo Onanuga, a wildfire unchecked. I stood at the polls that second day, refusing to vote Sanwo-Olu, defying those who sought to silence others. Tinubu saw it all and said nothing. Leadership demands a moral compass, an aversion to bigotry, a rejection of knavish, self-serving spite. Egocentric Tinubu missed the early opportunities.

After the bitter elections, Tinubu chose self-adulation over healing. He could have stretched a hand to his rivals, despite their loud rejection of the results. At the time of his swearing-in, national unity was his greatest task, yet he stood too triumphant to stoop.

I backed the removal of petrol and dollar subsidies, but the CBN’s incoherent, timid and haphazard approach—ignoring our dollar debts’ backlog—betrayed a lack of foresight.

As the cart galloped before the horse, and I prayed this wouldn’t define my president’s reign. Policy somersaults, shadow chasing and lazy scapegoating unfortunately grew rife.

When Tinubu unveiled his flabby cabinet, stacking critical posts with Yoruba loyalists, my heart sank. His rabid tribalism which spread to key agencies wasn’t just a betrayal—it was proof he lacked the vision for transformative leadership Nigeria begged for. The master strategist was playing monkey post politics on a Maracana stage. Many Yoruba voices whispered their disgust. Tinubu’s primitive tribalism was tailored not to serve true Yoruba interest but to build a personal political cult.

A cabinet bloated with questionable characters, a vision too feeble to rally the nation, and an aloofness that mocked the people’s pain—this was Tinubu’s truth. Removing subsidies unleashed inflation and economic hardship, but the real tragedy lies deeper: leaders untouched by the suffering they sow, unwilling to live the reforms they preach. These reforms—ambivalent, often shallow, yet torturous—bleed the people dry.

President Tinubu has not conquered himself.

The Lagos-Calabar road contract cleared all doubts. The nation’s largest road project ever. A multi-trillion-naira contract awarded without transparency, handed brazenly to a crony. A glaring signpost of the regime’s moral fatigue. Buhari had been conscious of his past: a dictator. Tinubu, perhaps isn’t interested in burnishing his image. But if corruption was the only bane of this administration, then it could be forgiven. Now Dr Usman Bugaje and Professor Pat Utomi think Tinubu is another Fujimori.

Governor Fubara has congratulated Tinubu for suspending him from office. Poor Fubara. He has looked up to the hills seen that the courts, legislature and masses have been cowed, bought and subdued. He is now singing and twerking for his oppressors. The president abuses his power by dismantling democracy in a state, usurping the people’s mandate and handing it to an illegal sole administrator. Everybody claps. The state isn’t just captured; it’s been privatized. The national chorus endorsing this unconstitutionality affirms the political class’s servility before a sly presidency.

I now pray the Mobutu I had dreaded isn’t upon us. Politicians from all sides now flock to Tinubu’s bandwagon vowing to secure his second term and beyond. While this unfolds, the youth flee. Interest rates choke at prohibitive heights, inflation’s blaze consumes lives, livelihoods, and savings. Banditry and kidnapping ravage Benue, Plateau, Niger, Kwara, Borno, Katsina, Kaduna and other states. Yet the president, when it suits him, decamps to France for weeks, ruling from afar.

Tinubu may harbor noble intentions. Perhaps he’s laid bricks for distant gains: subsidy cuts, student loans, credit schemes (though their interest rates sting like scorpions), and tax reforms to swell the nation’s coffers. These are seeds of promise, marred by clumsy hands and scheming hearts. Yet Tinubu’s real albatross is a failure to weave a vision that kindles the nation’s soul. Tinubu wants the youth to bet on Nigeria, but they bet on Japa and Bet Naija, fleeing in droves across borders and gambling their futures into penury and despair. The brain drain doesn’t touch Tinubu’s heart. He crowns conquest over leadership, clings to hocus-pocus propaganda, revels in dubious data and sycophantic hymns, and shuns the duty of personal example.

I voted for Tinubu. The people hunger, stomachs churn and cry for the promised agbado revolution. Yet Tinubu offers only imported grains, no plan to open the forests and farm the land. Insecurity ravages the land. A relentless and free blooming scourge. Tinubu pledged 50 million youths for the army , yet delivers only echoes of failed strategies and a Forest Guard decree that lacks fire. The nation’s industries languish without steady power, and Tinubu leans on Buhari’s slow Siemens pact, no bold strategy of his own. The criminal justice system festers, a sham untouched by police or judicial reform. Healthcare? Let’s leave that jor. Tinubu seeks French doctors while Nigeria’s clinics crumble. Tinubu, my president, you can do far better, Olorun. Baba you don fall my hand. My hope is now a fading ember.