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By Pat Onukwuli
In the searing heat of Nigeria’s post-civil war silence, many voices went hoarse crying for justice that never came. But one voice has recently rung clear above the fog of amnesia: Senator Victor Umeh. A man often dismissed by detractors as a regional agitator has proven to be one of the most articulate and passionate national voices in Nigeria’s body politic. His recent rebuke of General Yakubu Gowon, the country’s former military Head of State, was both a cry for justice and a call to conscience. But it was also, interestingly, a moment of generosity.
In the long aftermath of wrongs, silence can feel like peace, but it often conceals unresolved truths. The political philosopher, Hannah Arendt, reflecting on the horrors of totalitarianism and historical injustices, warned that the refusal to confront the past corrodes both justice and memory. Legacy, then, is not only what leaders leave behind but what they dare to face before they depart. In Nigeria, where scars run deeper than our public memory, truth-telling is not a luxury; it is a duty.
In accusing Gowon of distorting the historical narrative of the Biafran War, especially considering General Ibrahim Babangida’s recent revelations, Umeh stopped short of total condemnation. Instead, he extended a rare olive branch: time still favours Gowon to make amends. At 90-something, the General is still alive. And in the tradition of elders who sit at the village square to tell their side of the story before the sunset of life swallows their voice, Gowon must now speak, confess, and atone, lest he die with truths that could heal a wounded nation.
The intervention by General Ibrahim Babangida in his memoir, A Journey in Service, has shaken the foundation of a half-century narrative that demonised the Igbo. In that book, Babangida calmly debunks the lazy rhetoric of an “Igbo coup.” He asserts that the January 1966 military uprising was not an ethnic conspiracy but a radical, if misguided, attempt at ideological reform. Kaduna Nzeogwu, he notes, may have born an Igbo name but was “Northern in culture and allegiance.” Non-Igbo officers were involved. Some Igbo officers even helped foil the mutiny.
This isn’t just historical revisionism; it is revelation. It strikes at the heart of the justification for what followed: the massacre of Igbo soldiers in the July 1966 counter-coup, the pogroms in the North, and the brutal three-year war that left over two million Igbo children dead from starvation. And yet, to this day, Gowon insists, without remorse, that the war was not targeted against the Igbo. Senator Umeh called this a “blatant distortion of history.” He is right.
Central to Umeh’s critique is Gowon’s betrayal of the Aburi Accord. The conference in Ghana, as historical records show, had offered a pathway to peace through a confederation model. Ojukwu agreed. Gowon, initially on board, later reneged. That reversal ignited the flames of war. Moreover, it fuelled the long-standing suspicion that federal unity was always conditional on Northern dominance.
To this day, Gowon has not tendered a public apology to the Igbo people, not for the war, not for the unjust killings, not for the blockade, not for the famine, and not for the broken promises of “no victor no vanquished.” He has, instead, clung to a narrative that erases culpability and whitewashes suffering. This is what makes Umeh’s critique not just necessary but noble. In his insistence that Gowon should write a proper memoir to “tell the truth,” Umeh offers him the grace of legacy; a chance to be remembered not only as a wartime general but as a statesman who sought healing in his twilight years. But time is like a stream; it flows on, whether you’re ready or not. Gowon, then, must not tarry.
If Gowon still has time to rewrite his legacy, General Muhammadu Buhari does not. He is gone, off the stage, and out of reach. In Exodus 1:8-11, scripture tells of a new Pharaoh “who knew not Joseph.” This Pharaoh viewed the Israelites with suspicion and fear, and so imposed burdens on them, enslaving and breaking their spirit.
For eight years, Buhari governed the Southeast in the likeness of that Pharaoh. He denied the region political appointments, starved it of infrastructure, responded to its protests with tanks and “Operation Python Dance,” and even mocked its people as a “dot in a circle.” His administration reduced the federal character principle to a farce, ignoring the Igbo in virtually every key sector of national governance, from security to justice to development. He governed with the partiality of a merchant who serves only select customers, indifferent to the loyal voices he chose to ignore. The result is alienation, anger, and a rekindling of secessionist agitation.
Now that Buhari has gone to meet his creator, his time on the national stage has come to a final, irrevocable close. While he had ample opportunity to reflect, make amends, or seek reconciliation, he chose silence. That door is now shut forever. His legacy, for better or worse, is sealed. Gowon, who still walks among us and holds the gift of time, would do well to take heed. But the sands are fast slipping through the hourglass.
That is why Senator Umeh’s appeal to Gowon is not just personal; it echoes the hopes of a generation still seeking closure. Nigeria’s future rests on the moral courage of its past leaders to confront history honestly. Gowon may have led Nigeria during its most challenging moment, but leadership is not merely about survival; it is about truth and legacy.
Umeh, with all his passion and fire, has done what many national figures have refused to do: hold the mirror of history to the face of power. But he has done more than that; he has offered Gowon a chance, a rare and generous one. Therefore, far from being vindictive, Umeh’s words invited reflection, reminding Nigeria that healing begins with honesty.
Nigeria often grapples with a selective memory, one primarily shaped by those in power, while the experiences of victims are too frequently brushed aside in the name of moving on. Senator Umeh reminds us that genuine reconciliation cannot emerge from silence or forgetfulness. Even fifty-five years after the Civil War, the pursuit of truth remains not only possible but necessary for healing, for justice, and a more honest national memory.
A nation does not heal through silence; it heals when those who shaped its darkest chapters speak honestly, while time still allows them to do so. Let Gowon seize the moment and heal the nation before he meets his Maker, as, truly, time is ticking.
