Among the most compelling figures in history stands the Corsican-born general, Napoleon Bonaparte – a man whose life defied the ordinary and whose death continues to echo through time. For those who admire the sweep of history, it is difficult to encounter the story of Napoleon without pausing in awe. He dominated Europe in his prime, redrew borders, rewrote military doctrine and sought to conquer the world.
When he first fell from power in 1814, Napoleon was exiled to Elba, a small Mediterranean island. It was expected to be a quiet end. But in a move that astonished the world, he escaped from Elba, returned to France without an army, and rallied the nation to his side. Thus began the fabled Hundred Days – his brief second reign. That resurgence was halted decisively at the Battle of Waterloo, fought in a small Belgian town (Waterloo). By linguistic odyssey that characterize philology, the name has since become a byword for final, crushing defeat. “To meet one’s Waterloo” now means to face the inevitable reckoning long deferred.
After that defeat, while attempting to flee to the United States, Napoleon surrendered to the British. They exiled him to the remote island of Saint Helena, isolated in the vast South Atlantic Ocean. Britain considered Saint Helena ideal for isolating a troublemaker. Far from any sympathetic power, inaccessible to his admirers and secure enough to ensure that the once-unrivalled Emperor would never again disturb the peace of Europe.
Napoleon lived his final years on that lonely outpost. Life there was bleak. Rats scurried across his quarters, even nesting in his hat. Fleas and bugs made no distinction of human rank, and the island’s climate and isolation gnawed at both body and spirit. Yet, amid that desolation, he rediscovered his Catholic faith, arranged for Sunday Masses in his residence towards his end, and received the sacraments two days before his death. He was buried on the island, but in 1840 his remains were returned to France and laid to rest with full honours at Les Invalides in Paris. In his will, he had written: “I wish my ashes to rest on the banks of the Seine, in the midst of the French people whom I loved so much.” Years later, when I visited Paris and flowing from my admiration for Naoloean, I stood before that very tomb in Les Invalides. Nearby flows the Seine, quietly fulfilling the final wish of a man who once set Europe ablaze.
Why recall Napoleon and Saint Helena now? Because the recent holiday of President Bola Ahmed Tinubu to the Caribbean island of Saint Lucia stirred a curious reflection. While the circumstances are obviously different, the justifications offered for both Napoleon’s exile and Tinubu’s retreat share an eerily familiar logic. Napoleon’s captors rationalised his exile on the grounds of necessity and distance. For them, isolation was peacekeeping. Likewise, Tinubu’s handlers have explained after a barrage of attacks from concerned Nigerians that his presence in Saint Lucia – despite ongoing domestic crises – was not as mere leisure but as a diplomatic opportunity. They suggested that the visit would strengthen bilateral ties with a nation said to have significant Nigerian ancestry, and serve as a study tour for tourism development.
Of course, such rationalisation is not unique to Nigeria or to modern leaders. History offers many examples of powerful men justifying controversial gestures with convenient excuses. Once, Julius Caesar broke with Roman tradition by sitting down to receive senators, an act seen as disrespectful and imperious. When challenged, he explained it away by claiming he had a runny stomach, and that standing might precipitate an unfortunate movement – as we would say in Igbo, “nwoke anyụa nsi ọk” (a man releasing hot diarrhoea). The excuse, though graphic, fooled no one. Most observers saw through it as the symbolic declaration it was: Caesar was no longer first among equals; he was already behaving like a monarch.
Unlike many of his counterparts across the world, President Tinubu appears to prefer foreign retreats – London, Paris and, now, Saint Lucia. In contrast, many world leaders choose to vacation within their countries, projecting not only modesty but a symbolic sense of solidarity with their people and their land. Presidents of the USA prefer Camp David. French President Emmanuel Macron spends summer at Fort de Brégançon, the presidential retreat on the Mediterranean. Russian President Vladimir Putin famously relaxes in the Siberian wilderness, crafting an image of rugged nationalism. King Charles III of the United Kingdom continues the royal tradition of summering at Balmoral Castle in Scotland. Germany’s President Frank-Walter Steinmeier takes quiet breaks in the Bavarian Alps, while Brazil’s President Lula da Silva retreats to Bahia, a region rich in Afro-Brazilian culture. India’s Prime Minister Narendra Modi seeks spiritual solitude in the Himalayan state of Uttarakhand, and China’s President Xi Jinping retreats to Beidaihe, a coastal enclave reserved for Communist Party elites. Even the Japanese Imperial Family spends summers at their villa in Nasu, deep in the Tochigi Prefecture. I visited the Papal retreat at Castel Gandolfo during my time in Rome.
These choices are more than leisurely decisions; they reflect a deliberate political symbolism – an affirmation of the leader’s rootedness in the soil and soul of their nation. In President Tinubu’s case, however, the pattern paints a different portrait. His continued preference for foreign locations creates an image of detachment. This was one of the reasons buying a new presidential jet was treated like a national emergency. As I write, he remains in Saint Lucia. Not even the metaphorical fires engulfing Nigeria – spiralling inflation, insecurity, power shortages, and a cost-of-living crisis – nor the real fires ignited by bandits and herdsmen would compel him to shorten his trip.
And so we return to Saint Helena. If remoteness is the standard for presidential retreat, perhaps President Tinubu might consider it for his next holiday. Saint Helena is tranquil and obscure, historically proven to contain powerful men. No crowd would scramble to see him. It would offer the kind of solitude that even Saint Lucia cannot provide. For a man entrusted with leading a beleaguered nation, it may just be the kind of quiet that forces reflection, and perhaps, rebirth.
And so, if remoteness is the new measure of presidential responsibility, and if escapism now masquerades as governance, then after Saint Helena, President Tinubu might consider other equally obscure yet geographically satisfying sanctuaries. There is Saint Croix, a sleepy dot in the U.S. Virgin Islands. Or Saint Pierre and Miquelon, a fog-drenched French territory clinging to the edge of North America – ideal, should think like Tinubu people, for reflecting on policies and governance. These islands, like Saint Lucia, offer the one thing our president seems to value most during national crises: distance – not only in miles, but in meaning.