In a recent article I wrote, titled “Life’s Refusal to Obey,” I reflected on how life persistently frustrates our expectations, especially when we try to force events to align with our rigid perceptions of merit, reputation, and control. We are often obsessed with fixed ideals, what we think we deserve, what we believe is the best possible outcome, and what we assume will earn the most public approval or moral validation. Over time, these ideals harden into unwritten rules, cherished formulas that govern almost everything: relationships, class attraction, political loyalty, and even moral judgment. We elevate these assumptions to the status of sacred truth, treating them not merely as personal opinions but as absolute standards. Any argument that challenges these deeply held narratives is quickly dismissed as strange, uncomfortable, or even laughable.
It was within this framework that I referenced the public criticism by former First Lady Aisha Buhari of her late husband, President Muhammadu Buhari. Her words unsettled many because they defied a popular assumption: that “the good Buhari” was beyond criticism, especially from those closest to him. In the dominant narrative, only haters or morally flawed individuals could question Buhari, while supporters were expected to offer nothing but reverence. Life, however, refused to obey this neat arithmetic. If our simplistic moral equations were correct, a good man must necessarily have a good wife who would never criticize him, certainly not in life, and never in death.
Yet, this expectation collapsed under the weight of reality. Who, after all, could claim deeper love, loss, or moral authority than a spouse? Aisha Buhari’s willingness to acknowledge and publicly critique her husband’s shortcomings exposed the danger of idolizing individuals to the point of infallibility. It forces an uncomfortable but necessary question: if even those closest to power can see flaws, why do we insist on treating leaders as sacred figures immune to fault?
I extended this reflection to other events that similarly disrupt our expectations: Governor Caleb Mutwang’s defection from the PDP to the APC; the anticipated defection of Governor Abba Yusuf from the NNPP against the wishes of his political mentor and in-law; Senator Ali Ndume’s support for expanded U.S. military action in the North-East, despite assumptions about regional solidarity; and Professor Charles Soludo’s blunt rebuttal that there is no Christian genocide in the South-East, but rather Christians killing Christians. Each of these moments unsettled popular narratives and forced people to scramble for convenient explanations that would preserve emotional comfort rather than confront complexity.
Still, none of these developments has been as emotionally charged as the reported fallout between Kano State Governor Abba Kabir Yusuf and his political mentor and in-law, Rabiu Musa Kwankwaso. News now suggests that Governor Yusuf is set to announce his defection from the NNPP to the APC, a move that has already triggered a political crisis within his party. The NNPP’s leadership, anticipating his exit, has dissolved its Kano State party structures, while the APC has openly welcomed the possibility of his defection, seeing it as a strategic gain that could reshape Kano’s political landscape. Yusuf’s calculations appear rooted in survival, influence, and future positioning, particularly ahead of the APC’s 2026 congresses, yet the risks are equally profound, from alienating loyal supporters to igniting new internal conflicts.
What connects this episode so powerfully to Aisha Buhari’s story is the shock that comes when loyalty is not guaranteed by blood, marriage, or shared history. We are conditioned to believe that close relationships are the safest political insurance, that those who help us rise must forever retain moral and strategic authority over us. This assumption explains the bitterness that marked Nyesom Wike’s fallout with Governor Fubara in Rivers State, whom he openly branded a betrayer. Yet, just as Wike felt betrayed, many of his own allies have also felt disappointed by his choices, exposing the selective nature of loyalty narratives.
The cases of Kwankwaso and Abba Yusuf, much like that of Bukola Saraki and his late father during his time as Kwara governor, stand out as striking anomalies, moments when life openly defies tradition, sentiment, and expectation. They remind us that loyalty forged through blood, family, or personal bonds is not immune to fracture, especially in politics where interests diverge, survival instincts awaken, and individual judgment demands room to breathe.
As we speak, there are strong indications, through both rumor and visible political maneuvering that Seyi Tinubu is positioning himself for the Lagos governorship. For Bola Tinubu, this may represent the ultimate political investment: consolidating power not merely by elevating allies, but by securing legacy, relevance, and self-preservation. It reflects a broader trend where political actors increasingly prioritize certainty over sentiment, structure over nostalgia.
History, then, is repeating itself in Kano. The Abba Yusuf moment, like the Saraki dynasty before it, teaches a sobering lesson: comfort may exist in family ties and personal loyalty, but safety is never guaranteed. Politics, like life, resists uniformity. Human nature, differing perceptions, emotions, and ambitions, cannot always be forced into alignment with our preferred narratives of merit or gratitude.
Like Aisha Buhari, like Abba Yusuf, there is a lesson here worth learning. If Aisha Buhari could publicly critique Buhari even in death, and Abba Yusuf could openly defy Kwankwaso despite his immense contributions and family ties, then perhaps we should reconsider the harsh judgments we reserve for others. Ganduje, Shekarau, and many more, who also chose divergence over submission. What these stories reveal is not moral failure alone, but a shared human limitation: the impossibility of pleasing everyone, especially when survival, dignity, or perceived security is at stake.
Rather than arrogance, these moments should invite humility and reconciliation. They should teach us flexibility. Few sights are as humbling as watching figures like gov Caleb Mutwang and gov Abba Yusuf contemplate defection to a party they once opposed with contempt, insults, and denial. Life has a way of overturning certainty.
In truth, anything is possible, including the collapse of judgments we once believed were beyond challenge. Like Aisha Buhari. Like Abba Yusuf.
Perhaps the only surprise left would be Abba Yusuf one day making Aisha Buhari the First Lady of Kano through some bold political alliance born of flexibility and shock. After all, life has long warned us that today’s best friend can become tomorrow’s worst enemy, and today’s enemy, tomorrow’s ally. Nowhere is this lesson more practical, more brutal, and more real than in politics.
Bagudu can be reached at bagudumohammed15197@gmail.com or on 0703 494 3575.
