THERE is an old and uneasy ghost that still haunts Nigeria’s Aso Rock Presidential Villa – a spectre dressed in camouflage, perfumed with decrees, fear, and the stale arrogance of unchecked authority. It is the ghost of General Sani Abacha, the military ruler who transformed Nigeria into a graveyard of dissent, where opposition figures vanished into prison cells, journalists learned the price of truth, and democracy itself was placed under military detention.
For the two decades and eight years since Abacha died (on June 8, 1998), Nigerians were of the mistaken believe that his ghost had also been buried beneath the rubble of military rule, surviving only as a warning against authoritarian excesses, political suffocation, and the terrifying concentration of power in the hands of one man. Yet, beneath the flowing agbada and democratic mythology under President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, many of us now sense something eerily familiar with Abacha. The resemblance may not be exact, but the echoes are growing louder.
But authoritarianism rarely announces itself dramatically at first. Like erosion, it often advances gradually – one compromised institution at a time, one intimidated critic at a time, one weakened opposition platform at a time. Democracies do not always die through violent coups. Sometimes they simply suffocate beneath the slow disruption of free, competitive politics. This is where the comparison with Abacha becomes more philosophical than literal.
The irony is almost too rich to process. Tinubu rose to national prominence as one of the celebrated figures of the pro-democracy struggle. He was associated with the resistance against military absolutism after the annulment of the June 12 election. He occupied the moral high ground of NADECO politics, wore exile like a badge of honour, and built a political reputation as a progressive federalist committed to democratic freedoms.
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Yet today, beneath his democratic toga, diction and constitutional rituals, Tinubu appears to increasingly manifest recognisable instinct: the desire not merely to govern Nigeria, but to dominate its political oxygen so completely that opposition – the lifeblood of democracy – becomes merely decorative.
Abacha, notoriously intolerant of opposition, pursued his ambition with military bluntness. The political parties under his transition programme – memorably described as “the five fingers of a leprous hand” – practically competed to adopt him as sole presidential candidate. It was dictatorship without disguise. There was no pretence of pluralism. No sophisticated public relations. No elaborate democratic cosmetics. The man simply intended to become Nigeria’s only political destination.
Tinubu’s approach is far more refined, and perhaps more unsettling precisely because of its subtlety. Unlike Abacha, he understands that modern authoritarianism must dress itself in constitutional language. While tanks, guns and decrees are terrible optics in the twenty-first century; courtroom manoeuvres, selective prosecutions, strategic defections, institutional pressure, and the gradual weakening of opposition parties are far more elegant instruments for the contemporary political tactician.
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Under Tinubu, opposition parties increasingly resemble tenants receiving carefully prepared eviction notices from the ruling establishment. Governors and political heavyweights defect to the ruling party with astonishing speed, often accompanied by sudden declarations about the President’s “visionary leadership.” Political critics discover unexpected legal troubles. Opposition figures complain of intimidation. Institutions expected to function as democratic guardrails appear increasingly eager to become decorative furniture.
The similarities with the Abacha era are not necessarily in the methods, but in the underlying appetite for dominance. Abacha used fear openly. Tinubu’s critics argue that coercion today operates through institutional sophistication.
The military ruler jailed journalists, detained activists, and silenced dissent through naked force. The current democratic environment deploys pressure more delicately. Anti-graft agencies suddenly become energetic when dealing with inconvenient politicians. Court orders emerge with suspicious speed. Political rallies encounter “security concerns.” Media houses face financial and regulatory pressure. Labour movement become trapped in endless negotiations and strategic distractions.
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The difference is not always one of principle. Often, it is simply one of polish. Abacha wore military boots while dismantling pluralism. Tinubu governs in flowing agbada while presiding over what critics increasingly describe as the civilianisation of military instincts. One relied on decrees. The other operates through institutional leverage, patronage networks, and political absorption. One used a sledgehammer. The other prefers a scalpel. But both approaches seek the same destination: a political environment where power faces little meaningful resistance.
Perhaps this is Nigeria’s most tragic political irony – that many who once fought authoritarianism eventually develop an admiration for its efficiency.
Abacha attempted to become Nigeria’s only political destination through military force. Tinubu appears determined to achieve a similar dominance through strategy, patronage, institutional influence, and political suffocation. Different instruments, certainly, but increasingly familiar music. And somewhere, in the dark theatre of Nigerian history, the ghost of Abacha must surely be smiling at the irony: that Tinubu, once celebrated as a democrat, now governs in ways that remind many Nigerians of the very authoritarian tendencies he once claimed to resist.
The temptation of unchecked power has consumed both soldiers and civilians alike. Nigeria’s democratic history is littered with leaders who entered office promising reform but gradually became enamoured with control. The tragedy is not merely that authoritarian tendencies persist; it is that they repeatedly emerge from individuals once celebrated as defenders of democracy itself.
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Under Abacha, opposition became dangerous. Under the current democratic order, opposition risks becoming irrelevant; typical of the prevailing political reality in Nigeria.
This is a crucial distinction. Modern authoritarianism rarely abolishes democracy outright. Instead, it weakens democratic competition slowly and methodically until elections survive mostly as ceremonial exercises. Opposition parties are not banned; they are fragmented. Opposing voices are not always imprisoned indefinitely; they are entangled in investigations, litigation, and political exhaustion. Institutions are not formally dissolved; they are subtly repurposed.
That is what makes the present atmosphere so unsettling to many observers. What Nigeria appears to be witnessing is not the return of military dictatorship in its old crude form, but something potentially more sophisticated: constitutional authoritarianism draped in democratic fabric.
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Tinubu’s defenders, of course, reject these comparisons entirely. They insist that defections are a normal feature of democracy and that the ruling party is simply politically superior to its opponents; that journalists still criticise government openly, courts still function, and opposition parties still exist.
And strictly speaking, they are correct. Tinubu is not Abacha in the literal sense. Nigeria today is not operating under military decrees. Newspapers are not being shut down en masse. Political activists are not disappearing into underground detention centres with the same terrifying frequency associated with military dictatorship.
But authoritarianism rarely announces itself dramatically at first. Like erosion, it often advances gradually – one compromised institution at a time, one intimidated critic at a time, one weakened opposition platform at a time. Democracies do not always die through violent coups. Sometimes they simply suffocate beneath the slow disruption of free, competitive politics. This is where the comparison with Abacha becomes more philosophical than literal.
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At the heart of both political projects lies the cult of indispensability – the dangerous belief that one leader alone embodies national stability and political order. Abacha viewed himself as Nigeria’s unavoidable destiny. Increasingly, Tinubu appears surrounded by a political chorus presenting him as the master strategist, the indispensable man capable of holding Nigeria’s fragile coalition together.
Within such political atmosphere, dissent is easily framed as sabotage, criticism translated as disloyalty or hatred; accountability begins to sound like hostility; and gradually, the vocabulary of patriotism is weaponised against the vocabulary of democratic scrutiny. History offers countless warnings about this tendency.
Nations rarely lose freedom overnight. More often, freedom is negotiated away incrementally in exchange for promises of stability, efficiency, or political control. Citizens become accustomed to institutional intimidation. Elite consensus replaces genuine democratic competition. Political survival overtakes political principle. Eventually, authoritarian habits become normalised, even under civilian governments.
That is the real anxiety haunting contemporary Nigeria. The fear is not that Tinubu will literally recreate Abacha’s dictatorship in its original military form. The fear is that Nigeria may be drifting toward a softer, more sophisticated version of political dominance where opposition survives largely as a variant of the ruling elite, institutions function selectively, and democratic competition steadily weakens beneath the weight of elite consolidation.
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Perhaps, Nigeria’s deepest problem has never been whether its rulers wear khaki or silk. It is that too many eventually develop the same appetite for unquestioned control.
Abacha attempted to become Nigeria’s only political destination through military force. Tinubu appears determined to achieve a similar dominance through strategy, patronage, institutional influence, and political suffocation. Different instruments, certainly, but increasingly familiar music. And somewhere, in the dark theatre of Nigerian history, the ghost of Abacha must surely be smiling at the irony: that Tinubu, once celebrated as a democrat, now governs in ways that remind many Nigerians of the very authoritarian tendencies he once claimed to resist.
The uniforms may have changed. The methods may have evolved. The language may now wear constitutional perfume. But the old ghost still lingers in the corridors of power, whispering the same ancient temptation into the ears of those who govern Nigeria – that power is sweetest when no rival can breathe beside it.
God save the Republic from the seduction of its saviours.
Onah is the Editor-in-Chief of NATIONAL RECORD. He writes this column every Wednesday. Readers’ reactions and comments may be sent to: nationalrecordng@gmail.com, onahiduh@yahoo.co.uk, or marxengeliduh70@gmail.com.
