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The General’s Tale: A Chronicle of Service, Regret, and Silence

Published

8 months ago

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  • Book Title: A Journey in Service
  • Author: Ibrahim B. Babangida
  • Publishers: Bookcraft
  • Reviewer: Emeaba Emeaba
  • Pages: 440

In the annals of Nigerian history, few figures loom as large—or as polarizing—as Ibrahim Babangida, the military ruler who held sway from 1985 to 1993. Known to some as the “Maradona” of politics for his nimble maneuvering and to others as an “evil genius” for his controversial decisions, Babangida has long been a cipher, his legacy a battleground of competing narratives. His new autobiography, A Journey in Service, promises to peel back the layers of this enigmatic leader. What emerges, however, is a portrait both revealing and reticent—a calculated blend of candor and evasion that invites readers into the mind of a man wrestling with his past, yet unwilling to fully confront its shadows.

The book opens with a disarming simplicity, tracing Babangida’s arc from humble origins in Minna to the corridors of power in Lagos. His prose, clear and occasionally lyrical, sketches a life shaped by ambition and camaraderie, from sharing shirts with childhood friend Mamman Vatsa in their bachelor days to navigating the treacherous currents of military hierarchy. This early narrative sets the stage for his presidency, a period he frames as one of service and sacrifice. He highlights tangible achievements—economic reforms, infrastructure projects, and institutions like MAMSER and DIFFRI—casting himself as a steward of progress amid turbulent times. Yet, as the story unfolds, it becomes clear that A Journey in Service is less a reckoning with history than a meticulous exercise in self-fashioning.

At the heart of the book lies the annulment of the June 12, 1993, election—a wound that still festers in Nigeria’s collective memory. Widely regarded as the nation’s freest and fairest vote, it was poised to usher in civilian rule until Babangida’s regime abruptly voided the results, plunging the country into chaos. For the first time, Babangida expresses regret, acknowledging Moshood Abiola’s victory and calling the annulment an “accident of history.” “The nation is entitled to expect my expression of regret,” he writes, a statement that has stirred both praise and skepticism. Yet, his attempt to shift blame to General Sani Abacha and other officers feels like a sleight of hand—an effort to cast himself as a reluctant participant rather than the architect of a decision that altered Nigeria’s trajectory. The admission, while striking, lacks the depth of accountability that might have transformed it into a genuine mea culpa.

This selective candor extends to other fraught episodes. The execution of Mamman Vatsa, convicted of plotting a coup in 1986, is recounted with a mix of nostalgia and froideur. Babangida paints a vivid picture of their closeness— “we did several things together as peers”—before revealing a “recurrent peer jealousy” he now perceives in hindsight. The decision to approve Vatsa’s death, he argues, was a stark choice “between saving a friend’s life and the nation’s future.” It’s a poignant reflection, yet one that sidesteps broader questions about the trial’s fairness or the political climate that made such a choice inevitable. Similarly, his discussion of Nigeria’s first coup in 1966 challenges the “Igbo coup” label by highlighting the diverse ethnic makeup of the plotters and the role of Major John Obienu in quelling it. This revisionist take, while intriguing, feels more like a footnote than a fulsome exploration of a pivotal moment that sparked the Biafran War.

Perhaps the most unguarded moments come in Babangida’s tender tribute to his late wife, Maryam, Nigeria’s iconic first lady until her death in 2009. “Her ebony beauty set off enchanting eyes,” he writes, recalling a partnership marked by mutual devotion and rare discord. Their love story, woven through four decades, offers a humanizing counterpoint to the book’s political machinations, revealing a man capable of vulnerability—if only in the personal sphere. Yet even here, the narrative serves a purpose, reinforcing Babangida’s image as a figure of depth and relatability amid his sterner legacy.

What A Journey in Service omits is as telling as what it includes. The assassination of journalist Dele Giwa, the mysterious $12.4 billion Gulf War oil windfall, and other stains on Babangida’s tenure are met with a resounding silence. These absences lend the book an air of strategic curation, as if Babangida seeks to polish his record rather than illuminate it. The timing of its release, amid Nigeria’s current struggles, and the lavish donations at its launch by people who have never set up a business, manufactured any products or even sold any goods suggest is an eloquent reminder of his enduring clout within the elite.

Critics and admirers alike will find fodder in these pages. Babangida’s willingness to address June 12, however imperfectly, has won plaudits from some, including President Bola Tinubu, who hailed his courage at the launch. Others, like Abiola’s son Jamiu, see it as a belated balm, a step toward peace if not justice. Yet the book’s detractors decry its evasions, arguing that it sidesteps the raw honesty Nigeria deserves. This divide mirrors Babangida’s own duality—a leader lauded for infrastructure yet lambasted for corruption, a reformer who clung to power until forced out.

In the tradition of political memoir, A Journey in Service is a study in the malleability of memory. It offers a window into a complex figure, but the view is obscured by the author’s own hand. Readers seeking a definitive account of Babangida’s rule will emerge unsatisfied; those intrigued by the interplay of power and narrative will find a richer vein to mine. Sophisticated yet guarded, the book is a testament to its author’s skill at controlling the story—even if, in the end, it reveals more through its silences than its words. Babangida’s journey, it seems, remains as much a riddle as the man himself, a legacy still contested in the crucible of history.

_________

♦ Dr. Emeaba, the author of “A Dictionary of Literature,” writes dime novels in the style of the Onitsha Market Literature sub-genre.

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The Pioneer’s Burden: Building the First Private Network in a Vacuum of Power

Published

24 hours ago

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November 4, 2025

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  • Book Title: The Making of Bourdex Telecom
  • Author: David Ogba Onuoha Bourdex
  • Publishers: Bourdex
  • Reviewer: Emeaba Emeaba
  • Pages: 127

In the history of Nigerian entrepreneurship, stories of audacity often begin with frustration. A man waits hours in a dimly lit government office to place a single overseas call, his ambitions held hostage by bureaucracy. From that moment of exasperation, an empire begins. Such is the animating pulse of The Making of Bourdex Telecom, David Ogba Onuoha Bourdex’s sweeping autobiographical account of one man’s effort to connect the disconnected and to rewrite the telecommunications map of Eastern Nigeria.

At once memoir, corporate history, and national parable, the book reconstructs the emergence of Bourdex Telecommunications Limited—the first indigenous private telecom provider in Nigeria’s South-East and South-South regions—against a backdrop of inefficiency, corruption, and infrastructural neglect. Its author, a businessman turned visionary, narrates not merely how a company was built but how a new horizon of possibility was forced open in a society long accustomed to closed doors.

Bourdex begins with a stark diagnosis of pre-deregulation Nigeria: a nation of over 120 million people served by fewer than a million telephone lines. Through a mix of statistical precision and personal recollection, he paints a portrait of communication as privilege, not right—of entire regions condemned to silence by state monopoly. His storytelling thrives in such contrasts: the entrepreneur sleeping upright in Lagos’s NET building to place an international call; the Italian businessman in Milan conducting deals with two sleek mobile phones. That juxtaposition—between deprivation and effortless connectivity—serves as the book’s moral axis.

From these moments of contrast, Bourdex constructs the founding myth of his enterprise. What began as an irritation became a revelation, then a crusade. “I saw a people left behind,” he writes, “a region cut off while others dialed into the future.” His insistence on framing technology as a means of liberation rather than profit underscores the moral ambition that threads through the book. The Making of Bourdex Telecom reads not like a manual of business success but like an ethical manifesto: to build not simply for gain, but for dignity.

As the chapters unfold, Bourdex’s narrative oscillates between vivid personal storytelling and granular technical detail. He recounts his early business dealings in the 1980s and ’90s, the bureaucratic mazes of NITEL, and the daring pursuit of a telecommunications license under General Sani Abacha’s military government. There is a cinematic quality to his recollections—the tense midnight meetings in Abuja, the coded alliances with military officers, the improbable friendships that turned policy into possibility.

These sections recall Chinua Achebe’s The Trouble with Nigeria in tone and intention: both works diagnose the systemic failures of governance but find redemption in individual initiative. Yet Bourdex’s narrative differs in form. Where Achebe offered moral critique, Bourdex offers demonstration—an anatomy of perseverance in motion. He documents the letters, negotiations, and international correspondences with Harris Canada, showing how an indigenous company emerged through sheer force of will and global collaboration.

Such passages risk overwhelming the reader with acronyms, specifications, and telecom jargon—R2 signaling, SS7 interconnection, E1 circuits—but they also lend the book an authenticity rare in corporate memoirs. What might have been opaque technicalities become, under Bourdex’s hand, instruments of drama. The machinery of communication becomes metaphor: wires and waves as extensions of faith and tenacity.

To situate The Making of Bourdex Telecom within Nigeria’s socio-political history is to confront the paradox of private enterprise under public decay. The book chronicles the twilight of NITEL’s monopoly, the hesitant dawn of deregulation, and the emergence of entrepreneurial actors who filled the void left by government paralysis. In this sense, Bourdex’s story parallels that of other indigenous pioneers—figures such as Mike Adenuga and Jim Ovia—whose ventures in telecommunications and banking transformed the national economy from the late 1990s onward.

Yet Bourdex’s tone is less triumphant than reflective. He does not romanticize deregulation; he portrays it as both opportunity and ordeal. The government’s inertia, the labyrinthine licensing process, and the outright extortion by state agencies form the darker undertones of his tale. His clash with NITEL’s leadership—recounted with controlled indignation—stands as one of the book’s most gripping sequences. When a senior official demanded an illegal payment of ₦20.8 million for interconnection rights, Bourdex’s defiant reply, “You are not God,” rang out like an act of civil disobedience. In such moments, the narrative transcends the genre of business autobiography and enters the moral theatre of national reform. The entrepreneur becomes citizen-prophet, challenging a corrupt establishment with the rhetoric of justice and self-belief. That blending of economic narrative with civic conscience is perhaps the book’s most compelling feature.

Stylistically, The Making of Bourdex Telecom occupies an intriguing space between oral history and polished memoir. The prose is direct, rhythmic, and often sermonic, reflecting its author’s background as both businessman and public speaker. Anecdotes unfold with the cadences of storytelling; sentences sometimes pulse with the energy of spoken word: “Amateurs built the Ark. Professionals built the Titanic.” The repetition of such aphorisms imbues the work with a sense of conviction, though occasionally at the expense of subtlety.

Where the book excels is in its evocation of atmosphere—the dusty highways between Aba and Lagos, the sterile corridors of power in Abuja, the crisp air of Calgary where the author first glimpsed technological modernity. These scenes transform what could have been a linear corporate chronicle into a textured work of memory.

Still, the narrative structure is not without flaws. The absence of an external editor’s restraint is occasionally felt in the pacing; digressions into technical exposition or moral reflection sometimes interrupt narrative flow. Readers accustomed to the concise storytelling of international business memoirs—Phil Knight’s Shoe Dog or Elon Musk’s authorized biography—may find the prose dense in places. Yet such density mirrors the complexity of the terrain Bourdex navigated. His sentences, like his towers, are built from layers of persistence.

Beyond its entrepreneurial chronicle, the book doubles as social history—a record of Eastern Nigeria’s encounter with modernization. The chapters on “The FUTO Boys,” a cadre of young engineers recruited from the Federal University of Technology, Owerri, offer a microcosm of the new Nigerian professional class emerging in the late 1990s: educated, idealistic, and determined to prove that technical expertise could thrive outside the state. Their improvisations—installing antennas by candlelight, building networks amid power outages—embody the collective grit that sustained Bourdex’s vision.

The narrative’s cumulative effect is generational. Through the story of one company, we glimpse a society in transition—from analogue isolation to digital awakening. The book captures that liminal moment when the sound of a dial tone became a symbol of freedom.

Running through The Making of Bourdex Telecom is a persistent theology of success. Bourdex attributes every turn in his journey to divine orchestration: friendships “placed by the Invisible Hand,” setbacks reinterpreted as “divine redirections.” Such language, while characteristic of Nigerian entrepreneurial spirituality, acquires here an almost literary force. It recasts corporate history as providential narrative, where the invisible infrastructure of grace mirrors the visible architecture of towers and transmitters.

For some readers, this piety may feel excessive; yet it provides the emotional coherence of the book. The author’s faith is not ornamental—it is constitutive. Without it, the story of Bourdex Telecom would read as mere ambition. With it, it becomes vocation.

The foreword by Abia State Governor Alex Otti and the preface by former Anambra Governor Peter Obi frame the book as both inspiration and instruction. They read Bourdex’s career as parable: the triumph of private initiative over public inertia. Yet their presence also situates the work within Nigeria’s broader discourse on nation-building. The Making of Bourdex Telecom is not only the autobiography of an entrepreneur; it is a treatise on indigenous agency—on what happens when Africans cease to wait for imported solutions and begin to engineer their own.

In this respect, the book extends its influence beyond its immediate industry. Its lessons—about courage, timing, friendship, and faith—extend to any field where innovation must contend with adversity.

Judged as a work of literature, The Making of Bourdex Telecom is direct and sincere. Its prose favors clarity over ornament, and its authenticity gives the story a compelling sense of truth. Bourdex writes not to embellish, but to bear witness—to a time, a struggle, and a conviction that technology could serve humanity. The result is a hybrid work: part documentary, part sermon, part memoir of enterprise.

As a contribution to Nigerian business literature, it deserves serious attention. Few firsthand accounts capture with such detail the messy birth of private telecommunications in the 1990s—a revolution that reshaped the country’s economic and social fabric. In its pages, we hear both the crackle of the first connected call and the larger resonance of a people finding their voice.

Bourdex’s central message endures: progress begins when frustration becomes purpose. His journey from the backrooms of NITEL to the boardrooms of international telecoms is not merely personal triumph; it is a chapter in Nigeria’s unfinished story of modernization.

In the end, The Making of Bourdex Telecom stands as more than the history of a company. It is an ode to enterprise as nation-building, and to the stubborn optimism of those who refuse to let silence define them.

See the book on Amazon: >>>>>

_________

♦ Dr. Emeaba, the author of “A Dictionary of Literature,” writes dime novels in the style of the Onitsha Market Literature sub-genre.

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Raising Ramparts: Christie Ohuabunwa’s “Warrior Parenting”

Published

8 months ago

on

March 12, 2025

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  • Book Title: Your Child is a Target
  • Author: Christie Ohuabunwa
  • Publishers: Cornerstone Publishing.
  • Reviewer: Emeaba Emeaba
  • Pages: 111

In the clamorous digital age, where information flows freely and often unchecked, Christie Ohuabunwa’s “Your Child is a Target” (A parent’s guide to safeguarding children from modern threats) emerges as a fervent call to arms for parents seeking to safeguard their offspring from perceived societal and spiritual pitfalls.  Across a concise 111 pages, Dr. Ohuabunwa, a self-proclaimed spiritual warrior and ordained minister, constructs a fortress of biblical precepts, offering a roadmap for navigating the complexities of modern child-rearing.  Yet, while the book’s foundations are firmly rooted in evangelical tradition, its ramparts, built on a worldview of spiritual warfare and stringent control, may prove too restrictive for some.

Ohuabunwa’s central thesis posits the home as a sanctuary, a “spiritual fortress” requiring constant vigilance against encroaching threats.  Scripture, drawn heavily from Proverbs, Ephesians, and Matthew, serves as both mortar and ammunition in this defensive architecture.  While this scriptural emphasis will resonate deeply with those steeped in evangelical thought, secular readers may find the pervasive biblical literalism overly prescriptive.  Indeed, the author’s unwavering emphasis on parental authority, particularly in regulating media consumption and social interactions, raises crucial questions about the delicate balance between guidance and coercion.  While “grace and truth” are invoked, the scales tip decidedly toward the latter, leaving the reader to ponder whether the children within these fortified walls are being nurtured or, perhaps, unduly regimented.

The book’s most compelling, and arguably most disquieting, sections delve into the concept of spiritual warfare as an intrinsic element of parenting.  Ohuabunwa casts childhood as a contested battleground where demonic forces relentlessly seek to corrupt and infiltrate.  This worldview, while not uncommon within certain religious circles, risks cultivating an atmosphere of perpetual anxiety.  The author’s advocacy for spiritual discernment, while laudable in principle, occasionally veers into the realm of paranoia, leaving the reader to question whether such a heightened sense of threat fosters resilience or, conversely, a self-perpetuating cycle of fear.

Ohuabunwa’s analysis of Generation Z, the so-called “digital natives,” further complicates the narrative.  She acknowledges their inherent vulnerability within the digital landscape while simultaneously recognizing their potential for “digital discipleship.”  The author encourages parents to engage with their children’s online world, even suggesting the deployment of memes and TikTok videos as vehicles for biblical truths.  Yet, this embrace of technology is tempered by a deep-seated suspicion of its insidious potential, warning against the lurking dangers of “evil connections” forged through social media.  This paradoxical approach – leveraging the very tools deemed potentially harmful – reflects a broader ambivalence towards technology prevalent within many religious communities.

The author’s staunch advocacy for discipline, a cornerstone of many parenting philosophies, is presented with a rigidity that feels somewhat anachronistic in the current cultural climate.  Her pronouncements on “corrective punishment” and the imperative to eradicate “foolishness” from a child’s heart raise concerns about the potential for emotional and psychological harm. While cautioning against “provoking children to wrath,” the demarcation between discipline and aggression remains, at times, disconcertingly blurred.

The inclusion of 60 “spiritual warfare prayers” offers a practical application of Ohuabunwa’s theological framework.  These invocations, ranging from petitions for protection to declarations against generational curses, provide a glimpse into the author’s spiritual arsenal.  However, their sheer volume and often forceful language may prove alienating to those outside her specific faith tradition.

In the context of contemporary dialogues surrounding parenting, technology, and religious freedom, “Warrior Parenting” occupies a unique and potentially contentious space.  While resonating with a long lineage of Christian parenting manuals, it also reflects the anxieties of a society grappling with rapid technological and cultural shifts.  Ultimately, Ohuabunwa’s work offers a compelling, albeit at times unsettling, window into the spiritual and cultural landscape of contemporary evangelicalism, serving as a testament to the enduring challenges of raising children in a world perceived as both promising and perilous.

See the book on Amazon: >>>>>

_________

♦ Dr. Emeaba, the author of “A Dictionary of Literature,” writes dime novels in the style of the Onitsha Market Literature sub-genre.

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A Scathing Indictment of Nigeria’s Judiciary: A Legal Insider’s Crusade Against Corruption

Published

8 months ago

on

March 12, 2025

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  • Book Title: Nigeria and its Criminal Justice System
  • Author: Dele Farotimi
  • Publishers: Dele Farotimi Publishers
  • Reviewer: Emeaba Emeaba
  • Pages: 115

It isn’t easy being Dele Farotimi. He seems to relish challenging authority, relentlessly poking the proverbial bear. His 2019 book, Do Not Die in Their War, throws social media’s incendiary power onto Nigeria’s already volatile political landscape—a raw, unfiltered explosion of commentary that fearlessly exposes the nation’s festering wounds.  In 2021, he published The Imperatives of The Nigerian Revolution—a scathing and sweeping critique that depicts a nation on the brink of implosion, offering what some might consider a naive pacifist fantasy as a remedy, a desperate, perhaps delusional, attempt to bandage a gaping wound while the elite continue to hemorrhage the nation’s lifeblood.  Even as he audaciously continued to provoke those in power, seemingly oblivious to the potential consequences, his books were being intensely scrutinized by the very individuals he portrayed as too ruthless and arrogant to care – the establishment politicians.  Those at the sharp end of his blunt, uncompromising prose angrily ground their teeth and bided their time, while multiple articles and online commentaries dissected his arguments, precisely because they resonated with the growing discontent simmering within the populace.

Now, Farotimi has written a new book.  “The judiciary is hopeless and unfit for purpose,” declares Dele Farotimi in Nigeria and its Criminal Justice System, a searing exposé of the rot festering at the heart of Nigeria’s legal institutions. Farotimi, an author, political activist, and lawyer with over two decades of experience, pulls no punches. His book is a damning indictment of a system he argues has become a weapon for the powerful to exploit the vulnerable, manipulate the law, and perpetuate injustice.  Drawing from his firsthand experiences, Farotimi weaves a narrative that is as much a personal memoir as it is a forensic analysis of systemic corruption.  The result is a work that is both deeply unsettling and profoundly necessary—a clarion call for reform in a nation where justice is often a commodity auctioned to the highest bidder.

In Nigeria and its Criminal Justice System, Farotimi depicts the Nigerian justice system not merely as inadequate, but as utterly broken—so much so that he feels compelled to go beyond mere theorizing and issue a resounding call to action.  Structured around his professional journey, from his early days as a young lawyer navigating the labyrinthine corridors of Nigeria’s legal system to his eventual disillusionment with a judiciary he describes as “systemically putrefied,” Farotimi’s book transcends a mere critique of the legal profession; it is a reflection of Nigeria’s broader societal malaise.

Farotimi’s account of the Eletu case underscores the insidious intersection of law, politics, and economics in a country where power remains concentrated in the hands of a select few. This case serves as a stark illustration of the pervasive land disputes that plague Nigeria, where fraudulent claims and judicial manipulation are routinely employed to dispossess ordinary citizens of their property. The level of alleged condescension and manipulation is breathtaking. Page after page, Farotimi’s book delivers a damning indictment of a system he argues has become a tool for the powerful to exploit the weak, manipulate the law, and perpetuate injustice. Utilizing the Eletu family case—a sprawling legal saga that epitomizes the dysfunction of Nigeria’s criminal justice system—which involved a fraudulent claim by the Eletu family, he exposes the alleged collusion between senior lawyers, judges, and government officials to manipulate the law for personal gain. Farotimi meticulously details how the Supreme Court’s judgment was allegedly doctored, how warrants were fraudulently procured, and how the judiciary allegedly became complicit in a scheme to extort billions of Naira from innocent landowners.  While the book speaks to the global issue of judicial corruption, offering a case study that resonates beyond Nigeria’s borders, it can also be viewed within the context of a growing body of literature examining the failures of legal systems in developing countries, from Sarah Chayes’ Thieves of State to Jennifer Widner’s Building the Rule of Law.

However, what distinguishes Farotimi’s book is its intensely personal perspective. Unlike academic treatises on corruption, Nigeria and its Criminal Justice System is grounded in the lived experience of a practitioner who has witnessed the system’s inner workings firsthand. Farotimi’s prose is sharp and unflinching, seamlessly blending legal analysis with personal anecdotes to create a narrative that is both informative and emotionally resonant. He doesn’t hesitate to name names, implicating senior lawyers like Afe Babalola and S.B. Joseph, as well as judges like Justice Atilade and Justice Rhodes-Vivour, in the corruption he alleges plagues the judiciary. His critique isn’t confined to individuals; he also dissects the structural flaws that enable such abuses, from the perceived lack of accountability within the judiciary to the alleged complicity of the Lagos State government.

Farotimi’s book is a powerful and important contribution, but it is not without its limitations.  One of its greatest strengths, its unflinching honesty, can also be perceived as a potential weakness. Farotimi pulls no punches, whether describing the alleged incompetence of judges or the purported greed of senior lawyers.  His willingness to name names and expose the inner workings of the legal system is both courageous and necessary, particularly in a country where such issues are often suppressed.  The book’s narrative structure, centered around the Eletu case, provides a compelling framework for his broader critique of the criminal justice system. The case functions as a vehicle for exploring themes like corruption, impunity, and the abuse of power, while also offering a human element that maintains reader engagement.

However, this focus on the Eletu case can also be considered a constraint. While undeniably significant, the case may not be fully representative of all the challenges confronting Nigeria’s criminal justice system. Farotimi could have broadened his analysis to encompass other cases or systemic issues, such as the treatment of criminal defendants or the difficulties faced by law enforcement. Another potential weakness is the book’s occasional lack of nuance.  While Farotimi’s critique of the judiciary is potent, his portrayal of all judges and lawyers as corrupt or complicit risks oversimplifying a complex issue. There are undoubtedly individuals within the legal profession committed to justice, and their voices are largely absent from the narrative. Finally, while Farotimi’s prose is generally clear and engaging, it can occasionally become overly dense, particularly when discussing legal technicalities, potentially making the book less accessible to readers without a legal background.

Nigeria and its Criminal Justice System is a sobering and essential read for anyone interested in the rule of law, corruption, or the challenges facing Nigeria.  Farotimi’s account of the Eletu case serves as a powerful reminder of the human cost of judicial corruption and the critical importance of holding those in power accountable. The book is a compelling and courageous exposé that shines a light on the corruption allegedly plaguing Nigeria’s legal system.  It is essential reading for anyone concerned with justice, accountability, and the rule of law.

_________

♦ Dr. Emeaba, the author of “A Dictionary of Literature,” writes dime novels in the style of the Onitsha Market Literature sub-genre.

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