So, Buhari didn’t die in Abuja.
He didn’t die in his hometown Daura.
He didn’t even die anywhere near the soil he ruled over for 8 years.
Nope -- the General coughed his last breath in London,
inside a very expensive hospital bed,
under bright foreign lights,
surrounded by people whose English pronunciation could make BBC proud.
Far away from the Nigerian streets that survived his “shhh” style of government,
far away from the voices he decided to ignore.
far away from the cries he closed his ears to.
He was 82.
Nobody pulled out tissue paper.
The soil did not sing.
The ground didn’t shake in sorrow.
This wasn’t the passing of a hero,
it was simply the quiet end of an emperor
whose throne was basically
a fancy chair with nothing to show for it.
For 8 whole years,
Nigeria breathed the air of his “silent presidency.”
Not the calming type of silence,
but that awkward silence you hear when NEPA takes light mid-conversation.
It was heavy, useless,
and you could almost slice it into pieces and serve it during dinner,
if only people had money for dinner.
He watched students stand outside locked school gates,
counting wasted years like old rusty coins.
He watched mothers cry like taps left on,
their sons lying on the road during #EndSARS.
He watched herdsmen turn dark nights into bonfire disasters,
villages disappearing in smoke.
And through it all…
he said absolutely nothing.
He spoke no word,
only the wind carried his indifference.
They called him “leader.”
But wearing the title “leader”
isn’t the same thing as actually leading.
Leadership is not wearing a robe stitched from campaign lies.
He was like a watchman with one eye,
but even that one eye was focused only on his own people,
his own tribe,
his own religion.
The rest of Nigerians? Just shadows in his blind spot.
He claimed Nigerian youths were lazy
Yet, he was the one tying big heavy stones
called unemployment, inflation, poverty and hopelessness to their feet.
He locked borders like it was his private prison,
shrinking food supply until even the smell of rice became a luxury memory.
He turned the naira into something so light
the wind could carry it away,
and so worthless that market women started cursing at sunrise.
The naira is today worthless like a used sanitary pad.
Eight years is enough to grow a whole forest of dreams
But the General planted weeds instead,
and kept watering them with excuses.
He built roads of promises that led straight to disappointment,
bridges of hope that collapsed before anyone could step on them.
Every speech was like a riddle without an answer,
every policy was a pot… but without fire.
When Nigerians knocked on the door of change,
he opened it just wide enough to grab their votes,
then slammed it shut,
sat on his empty throne,
and watched the country crack like dry ground under hot sun.
He is the General that misplaced Nigeria
History will scribble his name somewhere in the corner,
near other rulers who thought Nigeria was their personal farm.
It will say:
He came with a broom and swept away trust.
He came with promises and left with disappointment.
He came as a general and left as a ghost
When the London death drums sounded,
the River Niger didn’t blink.
The Niger Delta did not bow its head
The harmattan breeze didn’t deliver any sad songs.
Only the people muttered:
“He’s gone… but the mess is still here.”
The ruin remains
Nigerians learn this:
Not every man who beats the drum knows the way to the dance ground.
EBIKABOWEI KEDIKUMO - writes from Ayakoromo Town, Delta State
08134853570
