Life has an uncanny way of humbling even the most confident among us. No matter who we are or how carefully we arrange our expectations, life refuses to obey neat arithmetic, public applause, or the comforting illusion that effort always guarantees outcomes. It disrupts logic, embarrasses certainty, and often leaves us searching for explanations when events defy science, convention, or popular belief. The more I reflect on recent headlines in Nigeria, the more convinced I become that disappointment is not an accident of life; it is one of its most reliable teachers.
Take, for instance, the reaction to Aisha Buhari’s account of her years in Aso Rock. For many devoted Buharists, the revelations felt less like history and more like betrayal. The book, From Soldier to Statesman: The Legacy of Muhammadu Buhari, written by Dr Charles Omole, pulls back the curtain on a presidency long wrapped in reverence and silence. Through Aisha Buhari’s voice, readers encounter a private world of suspicion, tension, and vulnerability. She speaks of how rumors convinced her husband, albeit briefly, that she intended to harm him, and how his 2017 health crisis, widely mythologized, was, in her view, a consequence of disrupted nutrition rather than poison or conspiracy. Even Buhari’s death, the book insists, resulted from pneumonia, puncturing the fog of speculation that followed his passing. For supporters who had invested emotionally in a flawless image of their hero, this honesty landed like a cold slap.
Predictably, controversy followed. Critics dismissed the book as overly domestic, too focused on palace intrigues and family dynamics, and insufficiently engaged with policy, governance, and legacy. Some questioned the timing, asking why such disclosures emerged only after Buhari’s death, while others saw ulterior motives. Yet there is another reading. Political psychologists have long argued, as Harold Lasswell once noted, that politics is often an extension of private life played out in public. From this perspective, the book’s value lies precisely in its intimacy. It challenges the myth of invincibility that often surrounds power and offers rare insight into the human cost of leadership.
Aisha Buhari’s own portrait is equally complex. She accuses a small circle of aides and relatives of undermining her husband’s health and legacy, recounts her frustrations as First Lady, and reflects on her advocacy for women, girls’ education, and humanitarian causes. She does not spare criticism for government programmes she found wanting or appointments she considered nepotistic. At the same time, her public outspokenness attracted sharp rebuke. Many argued that a First Lady ought to suffer in silence, that loyalty demanded discretion, not dissent. Others mocked her lifestyle, citing luxury handbags as symbols of disconnection from the suffering of ordinary Nigerians. Her blunt comments on policy were read by critics as arrogance rather than engagement.
Still, admiration followed criticism. To supporters, her refusal to play the ornamental role traditionally assigned to First Ladies was refreshing. Her work with internally displaced persons and advocacy for the Chibok girls earned genuine respect, and her insistence on an independent voice resonated with those who believe democracy thrives on internal criticism, not blind loyalty. As Hannah Arendt once observed, truth-telling in politics is rarely rewarded, but it remains essential. The paradox, then, is striking: a wife criticized for speaking when silence was expected, while supporters loved the husband with a fervor that allowed no questions. Life, once again, refused to align with expectation.
The same unsettling pattern appears on the global stage with Donald Trump. To many Americans, Trump has been a disappointment not because he failed to wield power, but because he wielded it in ways that felt raw, divisive, and unbecoming of the office. His rhetoric embarrassed citizens accustomed to polished diplomacy and predictable restraint. I once remarked that Trump sometimes sounded more Nigerian than American, particularly in his blunt framing of Nigeria’s insecurity as a one-sided “Christian genocide.”
The irony is that Trump could be openly labeled a liar on mainstream American media, a fate unimaginable for many past U.S. presidents, yet he remained influential and adored by millions. For some Nigerians, the disappointment cut deeper when his stance on military intervention found unexpected local support. Shock followed when people discovered that agreement does not always respect ethnic, religious, or ideological boundaries.
This discomfort arises from what social psychologists describe as groupthink, the pressure to conform to a dominant narrative even when reality is more complex. Life punctures this illusion repeatedly.
That is how Professor Charles Soludo could assert that there is no Christian genocide in the South-East, pointing instead to Christians killing fellow Christians. It is also how Senator Ali Ndume could call for expanded U.S.–Nigeria military cooperation against terrorists in the North-East, defying simplistic religious narratives. Ndume’s argument, reinforced by recent attacks where Muslim worshippers were victims, underscores a brutal truth: terror is blind to faith. The insistence on reducing violence to sectarian slogans collapses under the weight of lived reality.
Closer to home, another headline delivered its own dose of humility. Pastor Chris Okafor, founder of Grace Nation, publicly apologized to Nollywood actress Doris Ogala after a personal dispute spiraled into arrests, counter-accusations, and public spectacle. Here was a charismatic, successful cleric, admired for his charm and influence, suddenly laid bare by allegations that challenged his image. His apology, delivered during a livestream, acknowledged fault and expressed remorse while denying parts of the accusations. Ogala’s claims of a broken promise of marriage, financial commitments, and emotional distress, alongside her demand for substantial damages, dragged a private relationship into the unforgiving court of public opinion. Once again, life demonstrated its talent for humbling those who seem untouchable.
Equally intriguing is the public reaction to the marriage of SGF George Akume to Queen Zaynab. In a society quick to moralize and rank people by marital history, the union unsettled many. Queen Zaynab, a philanthropist and entrepreneur with a history of high-profile marriages, including to the Ooni of Ife, a former governor, and an Arab prince, was quickly labeled a “serial divorcee.” The question on many lips was not about compatibility or affection, but about logic, class, and expectation. Why her? Why now? Why at his age and status? Yet love and choice have never sought public approval. As sociologist Zygmunt Bauman argued, modern relationships are fluid, unsettling those who crave permanence and predictability. Life, once again, refused to explain itself.
Politics, too, has joined the parade of disappointment. Reports of Plateau State Governor Caleb Mutfwang defecting from the PDP to the APC shocked supporters who once ridiculed the very platform he now embraces. Similarly, whispers of Kano State Governor Abba Yusuf’s possible exit from the NNPP to the APC, despite years of denial and rivalry, reveal how power rearranges loyalties. These moves offend purists but teach a quiet lesson: humility sometimes requires swallowing one’s words. Flexibility, not rigidity, often sustains survival.
Our greatest mistake is the belief that life can be reduced to a single formula. We assume that academic excellence guarantees successful children, that political office equals entitlement, that marriage can be engineered to preserve family prestige, or that opinions must align with the loudest narrative. When reality rebels, we feel betrayed. I recall powerful families whose carefully choreographed unions ended in divorce, despite every advantage. We expect conformity, and when divergence appears, we respond with shock, contempt, or the tired battle of “we versus them.”
Yet disappointment is not always loss; sometimes it is instruction. Life does not exist to validate us or obey our expectations. It humbles because humility is its hidden curriculum. Emotional maturity lies in learning to tolerate differences, respect alternative perspectives, and accept that truth does not always flatter our emotions. In the end, life disappoints not to destroy us, but to remind us that certainty is fragile, pride is temporary, and understanding begins where rigid expectations end.
Bagudu can be reached at bagudumohammed15197@gmail.com or on 0703 494 3575.
