There is something undeniably charming about General Yakubu Gowon. He comes across as unassuming and possessed of a quiet dignity. At 92, a milestone he will reach in October, he is undoubtedly a fortunate man, but time has inevitably taken its toll. There is an unmistakable sense of melancholy that accompanies the sight of a once-formidable military commander, who once appeared in an immaculate, starched uniform, carrying his swagger stick with effortless authority, now looking frail, contemplative, and perhaps quietly preoccupied with the judgment history will ultimately pass on his stewardship.
Unfortunately, such is the fate of all flesh. I know this because there are moments when I catch my own reflection in the mirror and am momentarily startled by the person staring back at me.
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Perhaps it is this concern for legacy that inspired Gowon’s recent memoir, My Life of Duty and Allegiance, in which he presents himself as a leader who made painful but necessary choices in what he believed was the supreme interest of preserving Nigeria’s unity. The narrative he offers is that of a patriot who inherited a nation on the brink of disintegration and succeeded in keeping it together despite overwhelming challenges.
I have never met General Gowon personally, but from a distance, he has always projected the image of a decent, humble, and fundamentally gentle man. He appears to be someone who avoids confrontation and controversy. One rarely finds Jack publicly attacking successors, criticising governments, or inserting himself into contentious national debates. Unlike some other General, you will not find him writing an open letters either. That is just not his cup of tea .
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In many ways, he shares similar qualities with former President Goodluck Ebele Jonathan. Both men cultivated the image of leaders who retained a measure of humility and humanity despite occupying the most powerful office in the land. Neither appeared to have aggressively pursued power; rather, circumstances beyond their control propelled them into positions of enormous responsibility.
Yet, for those of my generation and those who came after, it is difficult not to wrestle with a sense of disappointment, and perhaps even resentment, toward Gowon. He presided over Nigeria during one of the most consequential chapters in its history, a period when decisions of extraordinary significance were made, decisions that shaped the destiny of millions. Different choices, particularly in the handling of the political crisis that culminated in the Nigerian Civil War, might have spared the nation the devastation of a conflict that claimed more than two million lives. Even if one accepts his explanations in good faith, history reminds us of the timeless warning that the road to hell is paved with good intentions.
I deliberately chose not to read Gowon’s memoir in its entirety, although I examined portions of it and reviewed the perspectives of others who have engaged with it fully. After reading General Ibrahim Babangida’s A Journey in Service, I was reluctant to subject myself to another bout of mental anguish from the narratives of soldiers whose forays into politics helped lead my country down this inglorious path.
Perhaps one of the most consequential aspects of Babangida’s memoir was his rejection of the long held characterization of the 1966 Nzeogwu led coup as an exclusively Igbo conspiracy designed to establish ethnic hegemony. Yet one cannot help but ask: was this truly a revelation? Major Adewale Ademoyega had made substantially the same argument decades earlier in his book, Why We Struck. Many Nigerians, regardless of ethnic background, have long understood that the historical reality was far more complicated than the simplistic narrative that has dominated public discourse.
Babangida’s admission is therefore significant, but it does not necessarily transform the national conversation. Nigeria is not ready for such a difficult conversation and as the saying goes, one cannot awaken someone who has deliberately chosen to remain asleep.
The deeper question is this: what value does acknowledgment have if a nation lacks the courage to confront and correct the injustices of its past? It is far easier to dispute uncomfortable historical truths than to undertake the difficult work of reconciliation and restitution.
Babangida himself governed Nigeria for eight years and twenty seven days, wielding extraordinary authority and possessing ample opportunity to address some of the structural injustices that had shaped the country’s history. Yet, like many before and after him, he chose political convenience over historical correction. Even his deputy, Vice Admiral Ebitu Ukiwe, an Igbo and a respected officer known for his integrity, was booted out of office under controversial circumstances. But I digress.
There is no denying that Gowon inherited an extraordinarily difficult situation. Nigeria in 1966 and 1967 was a country teetering on the edge of collapse, traumatized by military coups, ethnic suspicion, and political instability. Leading such a nation required courage, wisdom, and extraordinary judgment.
However, history does not judge leaders solely by their intentions. It judges them by the consequences of their choices. The central question remains: did Gowon truly save Nigeria, or did he preserve a fragile arrangement whose unresolved contradictions continue to trouble the country more than half a century later?
A marriage cannot endure merely because the partners are compelled to remain together. A truly meaningful union must be anchored in trust, equity, mutual respect, and a clear understanding of the principles that govern their shared existence. Preserving the outward appearance of a family while disregarding the legitimate grievances and unmet needs of its members does not heal underlying wounds; it merely defers the inevitable reckoning.
More than five decades later, Nigeria continues to debate the same fundamental issue that confronted Gowon’s administration: restructuring. The irony is profound. The very debate that dominates Nigeria’s political conversation today was at the heart of the Aburi Accord of 1967. It’s amusing how we often convince ourselves that a problem will vanish if we ignore it. More often than not, it simply waits, growing larger until it demands our attention.
The agreement reached in Aburi, Ghana, between Gowon and Eastern Region leader Chukwuemeka Odumegwu Ojukwu sought to prevent war by granting greater autonomy to Nigeria’s regions, reducing excessive centralization, and creating a framework for resolving political disagreements through dialogue rather than conflict.
However, upon returning to Nigeria, Gowon’s government did not implement the agreement in the manner many believed had been agreed upon at Aburi. The resulting erosion of trust contributed to the collapse of negotiations and eventually the outbreak of the Nigerian Civil War.
Perhaps Gowon’s greatest failure was not just the prosecution of a war that may have been avoidable, but also his inability to capitalize on the extraordinary economic opportunity that emerged during his tenure. The oil boom of the 1970s transformed Nigeria’s financial fortunes. A country that had previously struggled with scarce resources suddenly found itself endowed with unprecedented wealth.
It was a historic opportunity to establish strong institutions, diversify the economy, invest aggressively in human capital, and create a foundation for sustainable prosperity. Instead, much of the oil windfall was squandered, leaving future generations to inherit the consequences of missed opportunities.
Norway, which discovered major oil reserves around the same period, chose a different path. Rather than treating oil revenues as an opportunity for immediate consumption, Norway built institutions designed to preserve wealth for future generations and established the Government Pension Fund Global. Today, that fund is worth well over a trillion dollars and serves as a powerful symbol of responsible resource management. Other oil producing nations, including the United Arab Emirates, Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, and Qatar, similarly transformed their natural resources into long term national assets.
While corruption was not new to Nigeria’s political landscape, the Gowon era witnessed a troubling escalation in its scale and brazenness. The 1970 Lagos bus scandal, in which the Lagos State administration under Brigadier Mobolaji Johnson purchased about 100 completely obsolete Scania-Metropol buses from Sweden at an allegedly inflated cost, became an early symbol of this culture of impunity. Although the transaction was the responsibility of the Lagos government, it exposed a wider failure of governance. Gowon’s weakness was not simply that corruption occurred under his watch, but that he failed to restrain powerful military administrators operating with little oversight.
One area where Gowon’s government made significant investments though, was in expanding educational opportunities and strengthening federal institutions. The National Youth Service Corps (NYSC), established in 1973, became one of his administration’s most enduring legacies, designed to promote national integration and reconciliation after the civil war. Beyond domestic development, Gowon’s Nigeria also emerged as a more influential African power, with his government actively supporting liberation movements in Southern Africa and asserting a stronger leadership role on the continent.
This growing continental influence was reflected in one of the most ambitious cultural initiatives of the era: Nigeria’s hosting of FESTAC ’77, the Second World Black and African Festival of Arts and Culture. The event, which became one of the largest gatherings of people of African descent ever organized, was ultimately held during the administration of General Olusegun Obasanjo after Gowon was removed from power in July 1975. However, the vision, planning, and early preparations for the festival began under Gowon’s government, making it in part a product of his administration’s broader effort to project Nigeria’s cultural and diplomatic influence on the global stage.
The festival was estimated to have cost Nigeria approximately $400 million, a figure that would amount to roughly $2 billion today. Whether that expenditure represented visionary cultural investment or an example of misplaced priorities remains a matter of legitimate debate, particularly when viewed against Nigeria’s many competing developmental needs at the time.
In the broadcast announcing Gowon’s removal from power on 29 July 1975, Colonel Joseph Garba, speaking on behalf of the coup leaders, declared:
“The government has failed to live up to expectations. The country is being run without direction, and corruption and indiscipline have become widespread.”
General Gowon is now an elder statesman. He deserves the peace, dignity, and respect that accompany a long life of public service. But he must also recognize that history demands accountability, not merely admiration. Nations cannot celebrate their past without honestly confronting the consequences of the decisions made by those who governed them.
The judgment of history is not written only by those who wield power. It is equally written by those who inherit the consequences of that power.
For many Nigerians, the Gowon era remains one of the darkest chapters in the nation’s history, a period defined not only by a devastating civil war but also by a squandered opportunity for transformative national development.
Nigeria survived, if survival is the appropriate description of our current condition. But survival alone was never the aspiration of Nigeria’s founding Fathers. The dream was not merely to endure. It was to thrive.
Osmund Agbo is a medical doctor and author. His works include Black Grit, White Knuckles: The Philosophy of Black Renaissance and the novel The Velvet Court: Courtesan Chronicles. His most recent publications, Pray, Let the Shaman Die and Ma’am, I Do Not Come to You for Love, have just been released.
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