“History is always written by the victors,” the old saying goes. In Nigeria, however, history is often written by survivors.
That reality has returned sharply into focus with the publication of former military president Ibrahim Badamasi Babangida’s memoir, A Journey in Service, in February 2025, and the recent launch of former Head of State General Yakubu Gowon’s autobiography, My Life of Duty and Allegiance, in Abuja on May 19, 2026.
Both books revisit defining moments in Nigeria’s troubled political evolution. Gowon reflects on the Nigerian Civil War fought between July 6, 1967 and January 15, 1970. Babangida revisits the annulment of the June 12, 1993 presidential election, still widely regarded as the freest and fairest election in Nigeria’s history. Both memoirs have generated intense public debate. Predictably so.
Memoirs written by former rulers are rarely neutral historical documents. They are often exercises in legacy management, part explanation, part defence, part confession and, sometimes, part revisionism.
The timing of both books is especially significant. Gowon’s account comes more than fifty years after the civil war ended. Babangida’s reflections arrive thirty-two years after June 12. By the time these memoirs emerged, many of the principal actors capable of challenging their narratives were already dead. That matters profoundly.
General Chukwuemeka Odumegwu Ojukwu, the leader of Biafra, died in 2011. Chief Moshood Kashimawo Olawale Abiola died in detention in 1998. General Sani Abacha is gone. Professor Humphrey Nwosu, who supervised the June 12 election under the National Electoral Commission, is gone.
What remains are memories, archives, fragments and competing interpretations. Gowon’s memoir inevitably reopens unresolved tensions around the civil war. To many Nigerians, especially in the South-East, the war remains not merely a conflict about territorial unity, but a humanitarian catastrophe marked by starvation, displacement and unresolved grief.
The statistics remain staggering. Estimates suggest that between two and three million people died during the thirty-month conflict, many from starvation linked to the blockade of Biafra. Images of starving Biafran children circulated globally and helped shape the modern humanitarian movement. Yet official Nigerian state narratives have historically focused more on preserving territorial unity than on confronting the deeper trauma of the war.
In My Life of Duty and Allegiance, Gowon presents himself as the leader who prevented Nigeria’s disintegration and later pursued reconciliation through the famous “No Victor, No Vanquished” declaration following Biafra’s surrender in January 1970. To his admirers, he remains the man who kept Nigeria together during its gravest existential crisis. To critics, however, especially many Igbo intellectuals and civil war historians, the federal narrative has often minimised the suffering that accompanied the prosecution of the war.
The debate is not merely academic. The civil war still shapes contemporary Nigerian politics. Questions of marginalisation, federal inclusion, state violence and ethnic distrust continue to echo in national conversations more than five decades later. The persistence of separatist agitations in the South-East demonstrates that unresolved historical trauma rarely disappears simply because a war formally ends.
Had Ojukwu been alive today, the national conversation around Gowon’s memoir would almost certainly have been fiercer. Ojukwu would likely have challenged Gowon’s interpretation of the Aburi Accord reached in Ghana in January 1967. He may have disputed claims that war became inevitable. He would almost certainly have revisited the massacres of Eastern Nigerians in Northern Nigeria after the July 1966 counter-coup, which Biafran leaders consistently cited as evidence that the federation had failed to protect Igbo lives. More importantly, Ojukwu would have contested the moral framing of the war itself.
The same dynamic surrounds Babangida’s memoir. For more than three decades, Nigerians waited for Babangida to directly address June 12. His administration organised the election after years of political engineering, repeated transition delays and state-managed party formation under the Social Democratic Party (SDP) and National Republican Convention (NRC).
On June 12, 1993, Nigerians voted in an election that cut across ethnic and religious divides. Early results clearly indicated that MKO Abiola was heading toward victory. Then came the annulment. On June 23, 1993, Babangida’s administration voided the election before final results could be formally completed. The decision plunged Nigeria into one of the deepest political crises in its post-independence history.
Protests erupted across the country. Civil society groups mobilised resistance. International condemnation intensified. Babangida eventually stepped aside on August 26, 1993, handing power to the Interim National Government headed by Ernest Shonekan, which itself was overthrown three months later by General Sani Abacha.
The annulment fundamentally altered Nigeria’s democratic trajectory. It deepened public distrust of military rule and accelerated demands for constitutional democracy, civilian supremacy and electoral credibility. In many respects, June 12 became more than an election; it became a symbol of betrayed democratic possibility.
In A Journey in Service, Babangida appeared to acknowledge that Abiola won the election while also suggesting that powerful forces within the military establishment opposed the outcome and pressured the annulment decision. Critics immediately questioned the logic of that explanation.
Babangida was Commander-in-Chief. If June 12 was wrongly annulled, can responsibility truly be shifted to unnamed officers and institutional pressures? Again, the principal counter-voice is no longer alive.
Had MKO Abiola survived, Nigerians would likely have witnessed a fierce public contest over the true story of June 12. He may have disputed Babangida’s account of military pressure, disclosed private negotiations or challenged portrayals of Babangida as a reluctant participant trapped by circumstances beyond his control.
Instead, Nigeria is left with an imbalance common in many post-authoritarian societies: surviving actors increasingly shape historical interpretation after rivals, victims or opponents are no longer present to respond. This does not automatically make either memoir dishonest. Human memory itself is fragile.
Neither Gowon nor Babangida wrote these books immediately after the events they describe. Gowon’s reflections emerged more than five decades after the civil war. Babangida’s account came after thirty-two years.
Historians and psychologists have long established that memory is reconstructive rather than photographic. Over time, people unconsciously reinterpret events in ways that justify difficult decisions, soften regrets or align past actions with present reputations. Conversations blur. Motivations simplify. Institutional failures become personalised or redistributed. That is why memoirs, while valuable, cannot be treated as complete or definitive historical records.
In countries with strong archival traditions, memoirs are rigorously tested against institutional documentation, declassified records, independent commissions and competing testimonies. Political actors may attempt to shape their legacy, but historians, journalists, researchers and state institutions often possess sufficient documentary evidence to challenge selective narratives.
Nigeria’s situation is markedly different. The country suffers from weak archival culture, inaccessible military records, poor preservation of public documents and selective institutional memory. Important files disappear. Official records are sometimes classified indefinitely or lost through administrative neglect. Transitions between military and civilian governments were rarely accompanied by transparent documentation processes. As a result, many defining moments in Nigeria’s history survive more through oral accounts, newspaper archives and elite recollections than through systematically preserved national records.
This institutional weakness creates fertile ground for historical revisionism. Revisionism does not always emerge through outright falsehood. More often, it appears through omission, selective emphasis, strategic silence and retrospective reinterpretation. Individuals remember events in ways that protect legacy, soften accountability or redistribute responsibility. Over time, those narratives can gradually harden into accepted public memory, especially when opposing voices are dead or institutional records are weak.
That reality partly explains the intensity of the reactions surrounding the memoirs of Gowon and Babangida. Nigerians instinctively understand that these books are not merely personal reflections; they are interventions in the national memory project. The controversy surrounding both memoirs ultimately reveals Nigeria’s unfinished relationship with its own history.
The country never conducted a comprehensive truth and reconciliation process after the civil war. There was no national catharsis comparable to South Africa’s post-apartheid Truth and Reconciliation Commission. The June 12 crisis was eventually acknowledged politically, particularly with the recognition of June 12 as Democracy Day by President Muhammadu Buhari in 2018, but the deeper institutional questions surrounding the annulment were never comprehensively excavated.
Many central actors died without formal testimony. Others remained silent. Some spoke only partially. Consequently, Nigeria continues to reconstruct its national story through fragmented memories rather than settled historical consensus.
Yet perhaps that is precisely why these memoirs matter. They force Nigerians to revisit difficult questions about democracy, accountability, national unity, state violence, elite responsibility and political memory. They remind us that unresolved history never truly disappears. It survives quietly beneath the surface of national life, waiting for another speech, another memoir or another generation to reopen old debates.
Ultimately, neither Gowon nor Babangida can alone define the meaning of the events they shaped. History belongs not only to rulers, but also to victims, witnesses, citizens and future generations. And perhaps that is the enduring lesson from both memoirs: in every nation, the final struggle is not merely over power. It is over memory.
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John Onyeukwu, is a lawyer and public policy analyst with interdisciplinary expertise in law, governance, and institutional reform. He holds an LL.B (Hons) from Obafemi Awolowo University, an LL.M from the University of Lagos, and dual master’s degrees in Public Policy from the University of York and Central European University. He also earned a Mini-MBA. John has managed development projects on governance, public finance, civic engagement, and service delivery. He can be reached on john@apexlegal.com.ng
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