Of Tinubu, Buhari’s Ghost, and the Hellish Verdict of the Masses

By Ajukomike Omehee

When President Bola Ahmed Tinubu recently confessed that “Nigerians hate me like hell, but I’m the President today,” he was not just making a passing comment. He was, knowingly or not, issuing a profound statement about the nature of governance, perception, and the silent verdict of the people. This wasn’t the first time Tinubu admitted to being haunted by the hostility of the Nigerian masses. Earlier, he had lamented that he no longer reads newspapers or social media because “Nigerians have been abusing the hell out of me.”

Notice the recurrence of “hell” in his reflections: “hate me like hell,” “abusing the hell out of me.” In Nigeria’s political theatre, these words are not incidental. They reflect a presidency increasingly aware of its public unpopularity but unsure or unwilling to confront the deeper reasons behind it. They evoke a ruler not just embattled but estranged, not merely criticized but despised.

The recent death of former President Muhammadu Buhari offers a striking mirror for Tinubu, a prequel to his own future if he ignores the signs. Buhari’s death exposed the sharp divide between Nigeria’s political elite and the ordinary people: the elite mourned; the masses remembered. This paradox wasn’t rooted in tribalism or partisan malice. It was rooted in practical experience of Nigerians. The masses do not forget leaders who worsened their poverty, deepened their insecurity, and weaponized state power against them.

In this unfolding national drama, Tinubu has been given a rare opportunity to choose how he wishes to be remembered.

By the way, why do Nigerians hate Tinubu like hell? If Tinubu sincerely wants to understand why Nigerians hate him that much, he doesn’t need a committee or a think-tank report. He needs to listen to the streets he claims to govern. He needs to recall his own words during the 2023 campaigns: “Emi lokan.” That sense of entitlement to power was not lost on Nigerians, who felt betrayed by the electoral process and further alienated by the fuel subsidy removal, which struck them like thunderbolt on the very day he took office.

Since May 29, 2023, Tinubu’s policies have brought more pain than relief, more hunger than hope. The people have, in their dark humour, nicknamed him “T-Pain.” It’s a cruel but telling play on his initials and on the suffocating pain his presidency has so far meant for the masses. Under his leadership, inflation has skyrocketed;
the value of naira has plummeted almost irredeemably; transport costs have become nightmarish; basic food has become luxury; joblessness has worsened;
insecurity has spread; salaries remain stagnant. Worse still, the middle class is vanishing. The poor are sinking deeper into poverty. And yet, Tinubu keeps making grand speeches about economic reforms, digital economy, and a better tomorrow, slogans that sound increasingly hollow to empty stomachs.

And here lies the teachable moment represented by the ghost of Buhari’s legacy, which ought not be lost on President Tinubu. Indeed, Mr. President needs not look far for a cautionary tale. Buhari’s death has laid bare the hypocrisy of Nigeria’s ruling elite and the elephantine memory of the suffering masses. In Abuja as in Daura, partisan tears were profusely shed, glowing tributes written, monuments planned, academic institution renamed after a figure that represented everything antithetical to western education. Good. In the streets of the East, the North-Central, and parts of the North-West, quiet relief, even private celebration, marked his passing. For the poor, Buhari’s name became shorthand for suffering without end, promises without delivery, and leadership without compassion.

Consider the interminable list of those who will never mourn Buhari – the Igbos, miniaturized as “a dot in a circle;” Nnamdi Kanu, illegally renditioned, indefinitely detained;
victims of Operation Python Dance in the Southeast; ASUU, still nursing wounds over withheld salaries; Emefiele, discarded scapegoat of policy failure; the 20 million out-of-school children abandoned; families of Lekki Toll Gate victims; IDPs in Northeast and North-Central, surviving in camps forgotten by governance; victims of unknown gunmen, Boko Haram, bandits; the middle class, dragged into poverty; the “lazy youths” mocked, ignored, and pushed into forced migration.
These groups didn’t forget. They remembered Buhari, not for what he claimed, but for what he did to them. This is the legacy Tinubu is inching towards, if he remains deaf to the rumblings beneath his throne.

Be it known that pain is not governance neither does suffering equate reform. Tinubu’s presidency seems trapped in the illusion that pain equals progress. He speaks of reforms while people speak of survival. He boasts of ending the fuel subsidy, of floating the naira, of economic tough love. But governance isn’t an economic textbook; it is a lived reality. A president who cannot connect his policies to the welfare of his people will soon discover that resentment travels faster than reforms. Buhari’s ghost now looms as a warning. His elite praise singers cannot erase the bitterness of those who lived under his rule. Tinubu’s path risks a similar fate, that is, governing for headlines while hemorrhaging goodwill among the governed. History is already sharpening its pen. Tinubu’s choice to avoid newspapers and social media isn’t merely self-care; it is symptomatic of a leadership retreating into an echo chamber. By shutting out the voices of Nigerians, he shields himself from the mirror they hold up to his face. Yet reality cannot be avoided – the street vendors who curse his name daily; the parents who can no longer afford school fees; the workers who trek miles because transport costs devour their wages; the pensioners whose hopes have turned to dust. These people are not online trolls. They are citizens. And hatred, however vulgar, is a symptom of betrayal. It is their way of speaking truth to deaf power.

The choice before Tinubu stares glaringly before him: Buhari’s path or redemption. Buhari’s death leaves Tinubu a clear fork in the road. He can double down on arrogance, dismiss criticism as noise, and sink deeper into elite echo chambers. Or he can pause, reflect, and begin to lead with empathy, transparency, and people-centered policies. He should ask himself: Will I be remembered like Buhari – mourned by the ruling elite, cursed by the poor? Or will I break the cycle and rebuild trust with those who today call me “T-Pain”? Leadership is not about surviving tenure; it is about shaping legacy. Power fades. Policies end. But how you made people feel — their lived experience under your rule — outlives you.

In the final reckoning, whose tears will really count? As with Buhari, the verdict won’t be in official biographies or elite obituaries. It will be in the streets. Will traders close shops to weep or dance?
Will students hold candlelight vigils or mock your memory?
Will the displaced pray for your soul or spit on your grave?
This is not morbid speculation. It is a reality rooted in how leaders govern. Tinubu must choose how history will write his epitaph:

‘A president hated like hell’.

Or a leader who turned back from the brink. Buhari’s ghost whispers the warning. The mourning-jubilation divide is not just about Buhari. It’s about all rulers who mistake the partisan and hypocritical cheers of the elite for the judgment of the people.

In conclusion, let’s shift our gaze eyond “T-Pain”. Tinubu can choose to remain “T-Pain” — a symbol of inflicted suffering, a byword for disconnected leadership. Or he can rewrite the story. But time is running. The people’s patience is thinning out fast. Their memory sharpens. Let him look at Buhari’s death, the muted laughter of the poor, the performative grief of the rich and ask himself:
Who will cry for me? Who will curse my name?
Which one will God accept?

Nigeria watches. History waits.
The choice is his.

I have said my own o!

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