Yusuf Buhari, son of Nigeria’s former president, Muhammadu Buhari, recently offered a rare glimpse into what it truly feels like to live on the inner edges of power and then suddenly outside it. His account, tracing the journey from the moment his father was declared winner of the presidential election to the quiet days after leaving office, carries an emotional weight that lingers long after one reads it. I found myself noticing how many people reacted with a resigned whisper, “such is life.” Indeed, Yusuf did not reveal anything radically new, yet his reflection confirmed what many of us have long imagined about leadership in this part of the world: that disappointment, unmet expectations, and even accusations of betrayal are not exceptions but inevitabilities. In that sense, his testimony merely affirms a truth many already know, though few articulate honestly.
After a long silence and withdrawal from public commentary, a message attributed to Yusuf Buhari circulated widely on social media. In it, he reflected on how life changed once his family left the seat of power. He recalled that shortly after former President Goodluck Jonathan conceded defeat and congratulated his father, his phone rang incessantly. Thousands of calls reportedly came in daily from former classmates, distant relatives, casual acquaintances, and even people who once worked in the household. Some called with clear requests, others with vague intentions, many simply seeking access. An aide often had to screen the calls. But once power changed hands and, later, after his father’s burial, the calls thinned dramatically. What remained were mostly close family members and a handful of business contacts. With time, public interest faded.
Yusuf Buhari is far from alone in observing this familiar drama of power and abandonment. Shortly after President Buhari left office, Femi Adesina published an article titled “My Phone Has Stopped Ringing,” a personal reflection on how power shapes human relationships. Adesina explained that while he was close to the seat of power, his phone rang endlessly. Friends, acquaintances, and strangers alike sought access, favours, or influence. Once he stepped away, the calls largely ceased. His experience reinforces a sobering lesson: many relationships are sustained not by affection or loyalty but by proximity to power. As political theorist Max Weber once noted, power often creates obedience not through love, but through expectation. Adesina’s reflection is therefore a lesson in humility, reminding readers not to confuse relevance with importance, or access with friendship, and to recognize the temporary nature of power.
Anyone who occupies even a modest position of influence knows how difficult it is to escape pressure. Relatives, in-laws, former classmates, neighbours, colleagues, and distant associates all emerge, each bearing expectations. In a society where almost everyone needs help in one form or another, it is fair to ask how feasible it truly is for any leader to remain strictly principled or consistently rule-bound. Expectations are not only high; they are relentless.
Yusuf Buhari is just one of the children of a former president who reportedly has at least six children. Imagine each child receiving a fraction of those requests. Then consider the president’s wife, Yusuf’s mother, who herself has social ties across multiple communities. Add brothers, cousins, nephews, old friends, political allies, and acquaintances, each seeking recognition, consideration, promotion, or settlement. The arithmetic alone is overwhelming.
What this means is that even if all ministerial and ambassadorial slots across the federation were reserved solely for a president to settle friends and associates, they would still fall short. Even if all job slots across ministries, departments, agencies, and political appointments were concentrated in one person’s hands, they would still be insufficient to satisfy the volume of demands.
Beyond that lies pressure from hometown associations, community development groups, and informal networks in places like Daura, Kaduna, or Adamawa. Requests range from medical bills and school fees to wedding support, naming ceremonies, scholarships, and business capital. These demands are rooted not only in need but in deeply embedded cultural expectations of giving back and remembering one’s people. It is within this context that provisions like the federal character principle exist, and why leaders are expected not to be selfish.
All of this still excludes politicians, party members, campaign supporters, and allies who believe their loyalty entitles them to rewards. These are often the most demanding of all. Many feel justified in exerting pressure on leaders they supported financially or politically, and when expectations are unmet, resentment follows. This helps explain why some governors appoint thousands of aides and political appointees, a practice now replicated even at local government levels, simply as a response to overwhelming pressure.
It is also under this same pressure that civil servants and labour unions recognize the need to assert themselves through demands and strike threats, fearing that silence equals invisibility.
Society itself reinforces these pressures by setting standards for how leaders and their families should live after leaving office: the houses they should own, the cars they should drive, the donations they are expected to make. Traditional institutions, unwilling to be sidelined, devise ways to retain relevance by conferring titles, fully aware that symbolic recognition sustains attention. Society, in turn, measures generosity by the size of donations, publicly and privately. Ironically, if the son of a president gives a friend fifty thousand naira, gratitude is often replaced with disdain. He is labeled stingy, as though his identity alone obliges him to endless generosity. Few pause to consider that expectations follow him everywhere he goes, multiplying endlessly.
Yet we still expect leaders to be prudent and selfless, while judging them by how quickly they respond to personal requests, and simultaneously by how well they deliver infrastructure, protect public funds, uphold fairness, and respect due process. I recall a story of a governor who dropped cash for people to share, only for someone to complain that he received “just” two hundred thousand naira, despite having done nothing to earn it. The focus was never on governance or policy, but on personal gain. One wonders whether a governor must distribute money to everyone he meets to be appreciated, and whether doing so would not consume an entire month’s salary bill in a single day.
Still, society often equates flamboyance with effectiveness, generosity with merit, and restraint with weakness. Moderation is seen as a lack of power. I have asked many friends what they would do if they held power, and most speak passionately about helping classmates, relatives, and communities. These are noble instincts, yet the same people are quick to condemn others as corrupt or lacking integrity when they act on similar impulses. It is within this contradiction that leadership is judged.
Good governance is therefore measured by conflicting standards: the ability to meet countless personal demands while remaining fair, prudent, and rule-bound. By definition, it is impossible not to disappoint the majority. Even friends and relatives will feel neglected, let alone citizens who expect both symbolic generosity and strict adherence to due process. In this environment, power is judged not only by institutions and policies but by optics, largesse, and the ability to bend rules through influence, even as society claims to value integrity and standards.
What this often leads to is the attempt by leaders to remain relevant after office by sustaining networks of influence through protégés and loyalists. Although Yusuf Buhari did not disclose how many requests he could attend to while living in Aso Villa, it is obvious that satisfying even former primary school classmates alone would be an impossible task. And he was not the president. Imagine all of that pressure concentrated solely on the presidency, while millions of other Nigerians expect fairness based purely on merit and inclusion.
My reading of Yusuf Buhari’s reflection is not an invitation to pity, nor an attempt to shock, but a call to reflection. Leadership in our context carries enormous pressure that makes disappointment inevitable, even among loved ones. No matter how well-intentioned a leader may be, he or she will almost certainly disappoint more people than they please. It is difficult to be seen as generous and compassionate without being accused of bias, nepotism, or lack of integrity. While many envy leadership for its privileges, the emotional cost, the strain on relationships, and the sense of being perpetually inadequate are rarely acknowledged.
Leadership, like the first family itself, is not all roses. There is another side, one where expectations collide, friendships fracture, and even those closest to power discover that they too can be lonely, misunderstood, and overwhelmed. Perhaps understanding this tension is the first step toward judging leadership with greater honesty and humanity.
Bagudu can be reached at bagudumohammed15197@gmail.com or on 0703 494 3575.
