I stumbled on a post that immediately caught my curiosity: “Peter Obi is greater than Ojukwu.” The statement didn’t compare Obi with a minor figure, but with a man who still sits in the pantheon of Igbo and Nigerian memory. That forced me to pause and ask: are we measuring real legacy, or are we caught in the swing of emotion, choosing the new bride over the old wife, the Warigida, simply because the moment feels electric?
This is not the first time Nigeria has watched a new entrant eclipse an established hero. When Muhammadu Buhari, the Dogo Daura, re-emerged in 2015, his influence dwarfed that of many politicians who had spent decades in the limelight. Suddenly, a man who had been out of power for over three decades became the moral compass for millions who felt betrayed by the system. It makes you wonder whether popularity is built on deeds alone, or on the stories we tell ourselves when we are desperate for rescue.
My attempt here is not to diminish merit, but to test whether the feelings behind these perceptions are grounded in reality or in imagination. I have argued before that imagination largely controls our world. There is power in fantasy narratives, even when they are not strictly scientific. The political scientist Benedict Anderson captured this in his theory of “imagined communities,” where people rally around symbols and stories that give them a sense of belonging and purpose. In moments of national fatigue, the mind reaches for a figure who embodies hope, even if that figure has not yet been tested by time.
Part of the advantage held by first-republic politicians and national heroes like Ojukwu lies in being first. They were there when the nation was learning how to stand, and that alone confers a kind of honor that cannot be replaced.
Take Professor NN Wanang, whom I know closely. As the first Vice Chancellor of the new University of Education, Panshin in Plateau State, his name carries a weight that no later appointment can erase. That title becomes a reference point, a foundation, a memory that all other achievements are traced back to. In the same way, the first republic and regional politicians benefited from that early visibility. Their names were etched into the structure of the country before anyone else had the chance.
But then comes Buhari, and now Obi, both children of necessity, appearing at moments when the country feels like it is breaking apart. At a time when most leaders emerged through godfathers and political patronage, the masses, tired of a system that never paid them back, saw in these men a symbol of autonomy and a flicker of genuine intent to rescue the country. Psychologist Carl Jung’s concept of the “hero archetype” fits here: societies project their unmet desires onto individuals who seem to stand outside the corrupt system. It does not matter that intent is not always the same as outcome. As Professor Jideofor Adibe once asked, intent is relevant, but it is not the same as impact, and that is where the difference between candidates often collapses.
Both Buhari and Obi rose during periods of deep crisis, when the public was willing to invest faith and emotion in anyone who looked like an emancipator. Obi, in particular, carries the weight of breaking the jinx that made it seem as though an Igbo presidency was impossible. That alone gives his movement a last-hope feeling, not just for regional ambition, but for a nation desperate for redemption. The character they have built, the narrative of incorruptibility and sacrifice, is not less powerful than the privilege enjoyed by those who fought the first battles for independence.
So when someone says “Peter Obi is greater than Ojukwu,” they are not only comparing two men. They are comparing two eras, two hungers, and two kinds of heroism. One was born in the heat of nation-building, the other in the fire of national disillusionment.
Whether you see it as real or imagined depends on what you believe politics is for: memory or rescue.
And in Nigeria, those two have always been tangled together.
Bagudu Mohammed
