By Eshiorameh Sebastian
It is a classic feature of authoritarian personalities that when they are finally removed from power, they refuse to exit the stage. Instead of fading away, they consciously adopt the role of the aggrieved victim. They channel their bitterness into a campaign against the establishment, launching all manner of attacks against the same political structures they personally manipulated and corrupted for years, as if they were innocent bystanders all along.
In Nigeria, we are watching this dangerous pantomime play out in real time with Nasir El-Rufai, the immediate past governor of Kaduna State, and it is an example in cynical performance that relies on one grim bet: that the public’s memory is short, and its critical faculties are weak.
On Sunday, Nasir El-Rufai appeared on national television and made a series of shocking claims. He accused the Office of the National Security Adviser of handing over money to bandits operating in Kaduna State. He did not stop there. He also alleged that official rescue missions were staged events, among other serious charges.
Perhaps most disturbing was his tone. He sat comfortably and spoke casually about his time as governor. He described how he had gotten rid of a specific Islamic group in the state. But worst of all was his description of the people of Southern Kaduna.
He openly insulted the entire community, along with Christian leaders, claiming they felt too ‘entitled’. He dismissively referred to them as minority—a deeply offensive remark that minimises and insults a whole population. To speak so contemptuously about a group of people you were elected to serve on national television is one of the worst things a leader can do.
Kaduna under Nasir El-Rufai’s governance was a state stained by blood and defined by relentless violence. The period was marked by a brutal cycle of mass killings, particularly in the southern part of the state, where communities were ravaged by attacks from bandits and militias. Massacres became horrifyingly frequent, with villages attacked in the dead of night, resulting in the deaths of hundreds of defenceless men, women, and children. The government’s response was widely perceived as ineffective and indifferent, creating a pervasive sense of abandonment among the people. The sound of gunfire and the sight of smouldering homes became tragically familiar, transforming the region into a landscape of fear and mourning.
The violence was not confined to the hinterlands; it seeped into the very fabric of the state’s identity. The capital, Kaduna city, often sat under a cloud of tension, with curfews frequently imposed in a fragile attempt to prevent the spillover of ethnic and religious clashes. The state’s history of fractiousness was not healed but instead seemed to be exacerbated, with many accusing the government of employing a strategy of division rather than genuine reconciliation. The legacy of this era is one of profound trauma—of countless families torn apart, mass burials, and communities that are still struggling to rebuild from the ashes of a bloody and devastating chapter in their history.
Now, let’s begin with the man’s own confession. As sitting governor, a position of sacred public trust, El-Rufai openly admitted to a policy of using state funds—money earmarked for textbooks, hospital beds, anpotable water and even roads to pay individuals believed to be responsible for violent killings in Southern Kaduna.
Let’s sit with that reality for a moment. This was not a covert operation exposed by an intrepid journalist; it was a boast. A statement of policy. He did not claim to have outsmarted, captured, or brought these actors to justice. His solution was transactional: financial appeasement. And then, in a move that stripped the act of any remaining dignity, he reportedly invoked the Bible and the Quran to sanctify it. This is not sophisticated strategy; it is a moral failure of breathtaking proportions, a moment that should have permanently defined his legacy and ended his political career. But here is El-rufai today still moving freely, pontificating and being praised by some Nigerians as a crusader.
Yet, the story did not end there. It merely entered its most audacious chapter. Once the curtain fell on his governorship, the same man appeared on national television, now styling himself as a political outsider. There, he performed a stunning magic trick: he made his own recent past disappear. With a straight face, he lambasted the federal government for allegedly considering negotiations with bandits. The hypocrisy was not just subtle; it was a sledgehammer. Here was the architect of state sponsored appeasement condemning the very concept of engagement. A liar expects you to believe his lie. A cynic like El-Rufai expects you to applaud him for telling it so brazenly, to admire the sheer audacity.
Tragically, a segment of the public and his supporters obliged. They labelled this as “speaking truth to power.” This is perhaps the deepest insult in this entire saga. It is a phrase that demands the total suspension of collective memory and reason. It makes a mockery of truth itself. How can one claim to speak truth to power when they are publicly condemning the exact same actions they personally authorised and implemented just a short time ago? This is not courage. It is a calculated, insulting bet that the Nigerian people are not paying attention. It reduces serious matters of life, death, and security to a mere political football, to be kicked in whatever direction benefits the player in the moment.
The testimony from those who served alongside him, who witnessed the machinery of his government from the inside, paints an even more damning picture. These are not distant critics; they are the voices of the disillusioned. They describe a leader who did not merely manage existing division; he actively engineered it. Whispers of promises to act as a “gatekeeper” to explicitly block the people of Southern Kaduna from federal influence are not the mutterings of opponents but the confessions of former insiders. The deliberate denial of a promised university to the zone was not an economic decision; it was a punitive one, a message sent in cold, bureaucratic language. The casual, derogatory insults aimed at entire communities reveal a mindset that viewed a significant portion of his constituency not as citizens to serve, but as problems to be contained. It was a deliberate project to fracture the people further, to rule over the broken pieces through a strategy of tension and favouritism.
His public language, often dismissed as mere “controversy,” consistently provided a window into this mindset. It was never about engaging in good faith debate; it was about dominance through threat. Telling political critics to “climb Kufena Hill and fall” isn’t a witty retort; it is the language of a thug, a veiled suggestion of violence that has no place in a democracy. His cold, morbid remark about his fights with past presidents, noting how one “ended in his grave,” the other “ended in Otueke”, was a glimpse into a soul that views political conflict not as a contest of ideas, but as a lethal game where opponents are ultimately vanquished, one way or another.
Now, denied the centralised federal power he so clearly craved, he has hastily adopted the costume of the victim. The man who once wielded the state’s coercive power with impunity now posts passionately on social media about the “abduction” of his allies. The architect of a system where the judiciary was often seen as a tool for the powerful now cries foul about its “weaponisation.” The irony is so profound it borders on absurdity. He is not a dissident; he is a diner complaining bitterly about the terrible service in a restaurant he himself owns. He is experiencing a taste of the bitter medicine he so freely administered for eight years, and his outrage rings louder.
We must be clear eyed about the source of this rebellion. It is not born of principle. It is purely personal. Had the ministerial seat he felt entitled to been offered, Nasir El-Rufai would undoubtedly be the Tinubu administration’s most ferocious attack machine, defending every policy he now attacks and dismissing the suffering of citizens with the same trademark scorn he has always displayed. His current fury is nothing but rage of a bruised ego, a man who believes power is his birthright and cannot stomach its denial.
His legacy in Kaduna is one of pain, deepened division, and a cynicism that has poisoned the well of politics. His current act is the final, desperate chapter: a performance designed to make us forget the damage and rehabilitating the man. But we must not forget. We cannot forgive. To do so is to agree that power has no memory, that principle has no price, and that the lives and peace of citizens are merely bargaining chips in a cynical game. That is a price too high for any nation to pay. El-Rufai is betting that we will forget. Our only recourse is to remember, and to ensure that this time, the curtain does not rise on his next act.
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