In the high-stakes theatre of Nigerian politics, where power is often seen as the ultimate prize, the philosophical stance of a leader on human life can define their legacy. Two presidencies, two men, and two starkly contrasting doctrines on the relationship between ambition and the blood of the citizenry have emerged, forcing a national introspection on the price of power.
The first comes from a moment of profound national tension. In 2015, facing a fiercely contested election and escalating violence, President Goodluck Jonathan made a declaration that would echo beyond his presidency: “My ambition is not worth the blood of any Nigerian.” This was not merely a political soundbite; it was a principle put into action. When the results came in and defeat was clear, Jonathan’s concession call to Muhammadu Buhari was a masterclass in democratic maturity. It was a conscious choice to de-escalate, to value national peace and stability over personal victory. For this, he earned a unique place in Africa’s political history as a leader who, when pushed to the brink, chose the people over his own power.
Set against this backdrop, the words and actions of President Bola Ahmed Tinubu present a study in stark contrast. For the political strategist often dubbed the “Jagaban,” ambition appears to be a relentless engine, one that is not merely pursued but is watered and fertilized to yield a harvest of power, irrespective of the human cost. The events in Lagos State leading up to the 2023 presidential election stand as a chilling case in point.
The campaign, marked by ethno-religious vitriol and targeted threats against a specific demographic, created a tinderbox of fear and division. This was not the rough-and-tumble of ordinary politics; it was a calculated effort to frame the election as an existential war for the soul of Lagos. The rhetoric from key figures within the Tinubu-aligned camp was incendiary, explicitly designed to ostracize and intimidate a segment of the populace based on their origin.
This verbal violence culminated in physical terror on election day. Voters, many from the Igbo ethnic group, were reportedly harassed, intimidated, and physically prevented from exercising their civic duty. Social media was flooded with videos of coordinated attacks, of citizens being beaten and their PVCs torn, all under the apparent indifference—if not complicity—of law enforcement. The message was clear: only certain votes were welcome. The democratic process was subverted not just by ballot boxes, but by clubs and machetes.
Through it all, the silence from the campaign’s apex was deafening. There was no urgent call for peace, no forceful condemnation of the thugs, no “my ambition is not worth your blood” moment from Bola Tinubu. Instead, the perceived success of this strategy in delivering a landslide victory in Lagos was met with acceptance. The ambition was achieved; the chaos was merely part of the cost of doing business.
This dichotomy forces us to ask a fundamental question: what is the true cost of a presidency? For Jonathan, the price was his own power, and he was unwilling to let the nation pay it. For Tinubu, the price appears to have been the safety, the franchise, and the peace of mind of the people he sought to lead. The ambition was paramount; the blood, sweat, and tears were collateral damage in a predetermined conquest.
The legacy of the 2023 Lagos episode is a dangerous precedent. It signals that in the pursuit of the highest office, the watering of ambition with the lives and liberties of the people is a tolerable strategy. As Nigeria continues its fragile journey as a democracy, the nation must decide which model of leadership it truly rewards: one that sacrifices ambition for the people, or one that sacrifices the people for ambition. The soul of the nation depends on the answer.
Centre for Nigeria Progress 