Nigeria’s recent coup scare and the reactions it provoked have once again exposed the uneasy relationship between truth, power, discretion, and what many quietly describe as the “good lie.” The comments of Femi Falana, the respected Senior Advocate of Nigeria, did more than clarify constitutional procedure; they reopened an old moral and political conversation. Falana insisted that military officers accused of plotting against a democratically elected government cannot be tried by court-martial but must be prosecuted in civilian courts, stressing that Nigeria is under a constitutional democracy, not military rule. His argument, grounded in constitutionalism and historical precedent, recalled the Second Republic case of Mandara, a Maiduguri businessman prosecuted in the Federal High Court for attempting to mobilize troops against the Shagari administration. For Falana, the law is clear, and deviation from it is not only improper but dangerous to democratic order.
Yet, his further criticism of the Nigerian Army’s communication strategy, particularly its initial dismissal of coup rumours later confirmed months afterward, triggered a more complicated debate. Falana argued that Nigerians deserved an apology, suggesting that the military’s denial undermined public trust. In response, a netizen, Odu Ichapi, offered a counter-view that resonated with many. He argued that the military acted responsibly, avoiding speculation and only confirming the threat after due diligence, in line with established protocols. To him, silence and denial were not deception but restraint. That intervention transformed a legal conversation into a philosophical one, setting the stage for deeper reflection.
My initial response acknowledged the validity of that defense while questioning its moral comfort. Judgment and fairness, in most real-life situations, rarely accommodate the idea of absolute truth. A military response aimed at calming nerves, reducing panic, and maintaining order may be understandable, even necessary, yet it may also compromise integrity, shape perceptions, and create impressions that later prove misleading. This tension reveals an uncomfortable reality: in the effort to remain in control, even well-intentioned leadership may struggle to remain perfectly faithful to rules. Political theorist Max Weber once observed that leaders often operate within an “ethic of responsibility,” where consequences outweigh moral purity. That ethic, however, does not erase accountability.
This is why no leader or government can entirely escape moral lapses and still function effectively. History offers endless examples. President Donald Trump’s controversial actions regarding Venezuela in January 2026 illustrate this dilemma vividly. Following the capture of President Nicolás Maduro under longstanding U.S. indictments, Trump suggested that the United States would temporarily “run” Venezuela to ensure stability and manage its oil resources. Critics condemned the move as a violation of international law and national sovereignty, while supporters defended it as pragmatic, fair, and necessary. To some, it looked like jungle justice; to others, decisive leadership. The same action generated opposite moral interpretations, each anchored in a different perception of truth.
This pattern repeats itself across governance and human behavior. Laws, for all their strength, cannot regulate every human impulse, discretion, or judgment. There is no statute that dictates the kind of house a leader must live in, the clothes he must wear, or the number of vehicles he should own. These gaps are inevitable, and leadership often operates within them. Even scholars of legal realism argue that law is incomplete by nature, requiring interpretation shaped by context, power, and human limitation.
At a deeper level, most actions, whether noble or criminal, are motivated by some internal justification. The alleged coup plotters likely did not see themselves as villains. Rightly or wrongly, they may have believed they were acting out of patriotism. From their perspective, the act becomes wrong only in the eyes of the law, not in intention. This psychological framing explains why people rarely see themselves as evil at the moment of action. Philosopher Hannah Arendt famously noted that wrongdoing often arises not from monstrous intent but from ordinary rationalization.
The same logic appears in everyday moral compromises. Poverty is often invoked to justify crimes committed to feed families or pay hospital bills. Cybercrime is reframed as “hustle,” an act of survival rather than theft. Examination malpractice is excused as seriousness or commitment to success, leading parents and even schools to quietly endorse it. In each case, wrongdoing is softened by a narrative of necessity, a “good lie” told to preserve dignity and purpose. Sociological studies consistently show that when wrongdoing is framed as instrumental to survival or progress, social condemnation weakens.
Seen through this lens, the Nigerian military’s initial denial of coup plots can be interpreted as an attempt to protect national stability, manage fear, and prevent escalation. Such discretion may appear wise, even patriotic. Yet, it cannot erase criticism or suspicions of compromise. Integrity, unlike discretion, demands consistency, and the absence of full disclosure often invites distrust. Moral philosophy offers no easy escape here. Absolute honesty can destabilize societies just as much as calculated silence can erode trust.
Ultimately, the heart of the matter is not whether leaders sometimes lie, but whether any lie, however well-intentioned, can ever be free from moral cost. Life rarely rewards absolute truth, yet it never absolves deception. Ethical principles exist to guide judgment, but even they cannot guarantee moral perfection. Complete transparency can destroy relationships; total discretion can undermine accountability. Somewhere between these extremes lies leadership, permanently exposed to criticism.
The unavoidable conclusion is that no government, institution, or individual can act without fault. Every decision produces winners, losers, defenders, and critics. Even actions driven by moderation, compassion, or collective interest may be interpreted as weakness or compromise. The so-called “good lie” may soothe tensions and stabilize moments, but it can never escape scrutiny. In the end, life itself resists absolute truth, and leadership is judged not by perfection, but by how honestly it confronts its own imperfections.
Bagudu can be reached at bagudumohammed15197@gmail.com or on 0703 494 3575.
