By Ugoji Egbujo
In 2023, I cast my vote for Tinubu, eyes wide open, heart half-hoping. Yet now, I confess— he has let me down. I knew it wasn’t the Yoruba’s turn. I saw the arrogance in Emilokan — a brazen affront to equity’s call. Still, I backed him. I backed him after rooting for Amaechi in the APC primaries. Peter Obi was good but his vehicle, I thought, lacked the wheels to roll up the northern hills.
I chose Tinubu, believing he’d seen it all— bored of petty political squabbles, weary of conquests that consume time and soul, development and country — and could only seek true heroism. I imagined his twilight years, devoted to chasing posterity’s nod, not power’s fleeting thrill, not indulging the likes of Akpabio, Wike and Orji Kalu, not ego tripping.
