In a recent statement, former military president Ibrahim Babangida (IBB) invoked the name of the late General Sani Abacha as a key player in the annulment of the June 12 elections a decision that reshaped Nigeria’s political landscape and left deep scars in its democratic journey.
By attributing blame to a figure who can no longer defend himself, IBB raises profound questions about accountability, the nature of historical narrative, and the ethical responsibilities of living toward the past. The dead, as we know, cannot testify. They cannot rise to challenge accusations or offer explanations. They exist as shadows of history, their actions dissected, scrutinized, and interpreted by those still alive.
In this context, invoking the dead as scapegoats or deflectors of blame serves to simplify a complex issue into a mere matter of finger-pointing. This is particularly poignant with a figure like Abacha, whose controversial legacy includes not just the annulment of June 12 but also a regime marked by human rights abuses, corruption, and the suppression of dissent. When a living individual calls upon the deceased in a public narrative, it raises an ethical dilemma: how can we hold the living accountable for their actions if we allow them to attribute responsibility to those who can no longer speak? The dead can neither refute accusations nor provide their side of the story, and this silence can be exploited to muddy the waters of truth.
If we were to consider how the dead might plead if granted the power of voice, it would likely be a plea for understanding, context, and acknowledgement of the complexities that shaped their decisions. History is rarely black and white; it is filled with nuance, conflicting loyalties, and the burden of past decisions. The plea from the dead could very well be an invitation for those still living to engage deeply with history not merely to condemn but to understand the circumstances and pressures that prevailed at the time.
The dead might urge us to confront the systems of power that enabled their actions and to reflect on how those same systems continue to influence our present. They could implore us to learn from their mistakes, to ensure that their legacies serve as cautionary tales rather than excuses for further wrongdoing. The invocation of Abacha by IBB poses an ethical challenge to all of us. As citizens of Nigeria, we bear a responsibility to engage with our history in a meaningful way, to interrogate the narratives that come to us, and to seek out the more profound truths that lie beneath the surface of political discourse. Rather than viewing history as a simple chain of blame and response, we ought to recognize it as a complex web of human experiences and motivations.
Instead of invoking the dead as scapegoats for current struggles, we must endeavour to address the issues at hand. This involves investigating the deep-seated structures of inequality and corruption that persist today and recognizing how leaders both past and present contribute to the national narrative. By doing so, we honour not only the deceased but also the aspirations of the living who seek justice and resolution. The dialogue surrounding June 12 and the figures associated with it must shift from blame to a critical examination of governance, civil rights, and democracy. If the ghost of Abacha could speak, it might not be to defend his actions but to implore the current generation to avoid repeating the mistakes of the past. It would likely emphasize the importance of integrity, accountability, and the continual pursuit of truth.
As we navigate these conversations, we must also ask ourselves: What lessons can we draw from this history? How can we ensure that the silence of the dead informs our future actions? History does not exist in a vacuum, and by understanding the context in which decisions were made, we can better challenge the systems that allow for such actions to continue unchecked. The phenomenon of invoking the dead reflects a tendency in political discourse to sidestep accountability. The recent comments by IBB regarding Abacha remind us that discussions surrounding Nigeria's past are fraught with complexity and often personal agendas. However, as we reconsider these narratives, we must remember that it is not just about one man’s blame or deflection; it is about a collective responsibility to speak truthfully about our history, acknowledge the ghosts that linger, and strive for a better, more equitable society.
Let us ensure that our engagement with the past is not merely a funeral for old grievances but a living memorial that compels us toward truth, justice, and a future we can all be proud of. In this endeavour, we become the voices for the dead, not merely in remembrance but in active pursuit of a Nigeria that upholds the values of democracy and humanity that so many have fought for.