By Bagudu Mohammed
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 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 briefly convinced her husband 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 of the disclosures, while others suspected 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 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. Her public outspokenness attracted sharp rebuke. Many argued that a First Lady ought to suffer in silence, that loyalty demanded discretion rather than dissent. Others mocked her lifestyle, citing luxury handbags as symbols of disconnection from ordinary Nigerians.
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. As Hannah Arendt once observed, truth-telling in politics is rarely rewarded, but it remains essential. The paradox is striking: a wife criticized for speaking when silence was expected, while supporters loved the husband with a fervor that allowed no questions.
The same unsettling pattern appears on the global stage with Donald Trump. To many Americans, Trump was 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. 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 labelled a liar on mainstream American media, yet remained influential and adored by millions. For some Nigerians, the disappointment deepened when his stance on military intervention found unexpected local support. Agreement, it turned out, does not always respect ethnic, religious, or ideological boundaries. This discomfort reflects what social psychologists describe as “groupthink,” the pressure to conform to dominant narratives even when reality is more complex.
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 attacks in which Muslim worshippers were victims, underscores a brutal truth: terror is blind to faith.
Closer to home, another headline delivered its own lesson in humility. Pastor Chris Okafor, founder of Grace Nation, publicly apologized to Nollywood actress Doris Ogala after a personal dispute spiralled into arrests, counter-accusations, and public spectacle. His livestream apology acknowledged fault while denying aspects of the claims. Ogala’s allegations dragged a private relationship into the unforgiving court of public opinion.
Equally intriguing was 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 was swiftly labelled a “serial divorcee.” Public curiosity focused less on compatibility than on logic, class, and expectation. Yet love and choice have never sought public approval. As sociologist Zygmunt Bauman argued, modern relationships are fluid, unsettling those who crave permanence.
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 mocked the platform he now embraces. Similarly, whispers of Kano State Governor Abba Yusuf’s possible exit from the NNPP to the APC reveal how power rearranges loyalties. These moves offend purists but teach a quiet lesson: flexibility often sustains survival.
Our greatest mistake is believing that life can be reduced to a single formula that academic excellence guarantees successful children, that political office equals entitlement, or that marriage can be engineered to preserve family prestige. When reality rebels, we feel betrayed. We expect conformity, and when divergence appears, we respond with shock or contempt.
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. 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.
