I had just completed this week’s op-ed when a rejoinder arrived in my private mail. It was from Ayuba Mohammed Bello, a former member of the House of Representatives, in response to my piece, “Tinubu, Dogara, and the 2027 Mirage,” published on May 5, 2025. 

I welcome it.

Public scholarship, the kind I try to cultivate through my writings, is not an echo chamber. It is not a solo performance. It is a dialogue, a space for education, exchange, disagreement, and sometimes, correction. It thrives not on applause, but on engagement. It is in that spirit and in the spirit of feedback, of reasoned disagreement, of honest communication, that I reproduce  Ayuba’s response here and a further response from me as my piece this week. Both form the counterpoints of the right of reply. 

As always, happy reading!

I read, with measured concern and quiet disbelief, Abdul Mahmud’s essay titled “Tinubu, Dogara, and the 2027 Mirage: We Need a President Who Lives Modestly, Speaks Plainly, and Acts Justly,” published on May 10, 2025. Coming from someone who claims over three decades of friendship with Rt. Hon. Yakubu Dogara, the piece reads less like an intellectual disagreement and more like a thinly veiled personal rebuke, one marinated in envy and spiced with selective interpretation.

Let me begin by stating clearly: it is well within any citizen’s right, including Abdul’s, to scrutinise leadership, express discontent, and question policy. But what becomes suspect is when that scrutiny deliberately twists the intent of a public statement, as he has done with Dogara’s remarks. That’s not civic engagement; that’s character assassination wrapped in philosophical window-dressing.

At the core of Abdul’s piece is a fundamental misreading — or perhaps a willful distortion — of Dogara’s words. Speaking at a public event, Dogara reminded us of a timeless truth: that a president’s legitimacy should come not from the coercive force of the state, but from the moral force of his actions. That Abdul chose to interpret this as a blanket endorsement of President Tinubu — and then spent a thousand words demolishing that straw man — says less about Dogara’s judgment and more about Abdul’s simmering resentment.

Let’s be honest. What Abdul offered was not a critique of Tinubu but a disguised attempt to discredit Dogara. His essay barely hides its true motive: to drag down a friend who, perhaps in his moral clarity and continued national relevance, casts too large a shadow for Abdul’s comfort. It is a curious form of intellectual betrayal, where envy borrows the language of justice to stage a public ambush.

Dogara never claimed that Tinubu has embodied the power of example. He merely articulated what true power ought to look like. To conflate that with an endorsement is either careless or calculated. Instead of joining that important conversation on what leadership should mean in Nigeria, Abdul hijacked it and turned it into a personal diatribe. That is not the mark of friendship, nor of integrity.

Furthermore, Abdul’s insistence that Dogara “confused appearance for essence” is rich with irony. In fact, it is Abdul who confused the essence of Dogara’s statement — a moral call to those in power — with the appearance of political complicity. He accuses Dogara of polishing Tinubu’s image when Dogara was actually issuing a subtle challenge: lead well, or do not lead at all.

The most troubling part of Abdul’s piece, however, is not its intellectual missteps but its emotional undercurrents. You sense a bitterness that cannot be explained by policy disagreement alone. You sense the discontent of a man who has watched a contemporary rise through the ranks of service and influence, and who now chooses to speak not as a comrade in democratic progress, but as a rival from the shadows.

Make no mistake: disagreement among friends is healthy — even necessary. But when that disagreement is driven by something darker, when it masquerades as moral critique while seething with personal disdain, it ceases to be useful. It becomes pettiness dressed in prose.

Yakubu Dogara has served this country with honour, consistency, and thoughtfulness. His remarks at the Archbishop’s birthday were not political endorsements but ethical prompts — reminders of the standard to which all leaders must be held, Tinubu included. That Abdul found in those remarks a reason to launch an essay-length attack says more about his insecurities than Dogara’s sincerity.

Let us, as Nigerians, not fall for the seductive ease of misrepresenting our better voices. Let us not mistake rhetorical ambush for principled engagement. And above all, let us resist the urge to tear down those who challenge our conscience, simply because their light shines brighter than ours.

As 2027 approaches, we will need voices of clarity, not envy. We will need unity among those who believe in democratic ideals, not intellectual treachery masked as friendship. Dogara’s message was clear: we must demand leadership by example. That Abdul chose to twist that into an attack on Dogara says nothing about Dogara — and everything about Abdul.

On substance, misreading, and motive

Abdul Mahmud begins with a personal disclosure, noting a longstanding friendship with Yakubu Dogara. However, the transition from private camaraderie to public critique demands an even-handed reading. Friendship ought to lend itself to charitable interpretation, not presumption. Rather than assuming Dogara’s intent was to flatter Tinubu or whitewash failure, Abdul could have considered that Dogara —steeped in law and public service—was inviting a higher moral standard for leadership, without necessarily claiming it has been met.

Dogara’s statement at the Archbishop’s birthday wasn’t a declaration that Tinubu embodies the power of example—it was a challenge to all leaders, present and future. To read his words as a blanket endorsement is to flatten the nuance of aspirational rhetoric. His appeal to principle—“not by the example of his power” — is less a celebration of Tinubu’s performance and more a caution against authoritarian temptation.

While Abdul rightly traces the philosophical roots of “power of example,” he frames Dogara as misapplying the idea. This is disputable. Dogara didn’t claim Tinubu is a Plutarchian exemplar — he simply reminded us what true leadership should resemble. That he invokes moral ideals at all should be seen as a civic reminder, not rhetorical naiveté. There is room to critique Tinubu without projecting that critique onto Dogara.

Abdul accuses Dogara of inverting moral order by mistaking style for substance. Yet, he ignores that calling for ethical governance in a public forum is itself a form of civic accountability. Dogara is not excusing Tinubu’s failures — he’s articulating a standard to which Tinubu and others ought to be held. That Tinubu currently falls short of that standard is precisely the point Dogara wants citizens to measure.

In detailing Tinubu’s perceived failures, Abdul shifts from interpreting Dogara’s words to prosecuting Tinubu’s presidency. While those grievances may be valid, they sidestep Dogara’s rhetorical intent. The speech was not about defending the government’s record — it was a prompt to reflect on the nature of legitimate leadership. Attacking Tinubu is no substitute for understanding Dogara’s argument about how power should be exercised.

The portrayal of Tinubu as intimidating and ostentatious does not negate Dogara’s call for the opposite. In fact, it reinforces the need for leaders to heed such calls. By suggesting Dogara “absolves” Tinubu, Abdul attributes motive without evidence. Dogara’s caution against coercive power may have been a veiled critique, not an endorsement — a challenge urging restraint from a leader whose actions might otherwise spiral.

Abdul’s declaration that “our country cannot afford more of Tinubu” is a political judgment, not a philosophical rebuttal. Dogara’s statement is more about the criteria for leadership than the character of one man. Rejecting Tinubu doesn’t require rejecting Dogara’s ideals. The proper debate is not whether Tinubu deserves reelection, but whether Dogara’s articulation of moral authority is timely and necessary. It is.

To accuse Dogara of endorsing nepotism, patronage, and disconnected governance is to miss his message entirely. Dogara spoke of what should be, not what is. To conflate principle with propaganda is to do a disservice to civic discourse. Rather than calling for blind faith in incumbents, Dogara called for accountability rooted in character.

Abdul’s assertion that Tinubu avoids humility and dissent, while possibly true, doesn’t prove Dogara defended such conduct. Instead of responding to what Dogara said, Abdul indicts him for what he did not say. Silence is not consent. A call to leadership by example is not praise — it is a mirror. Dogara may be asking Tinubu to look into that mirror.

Dogara’s words, far from revealing a “bankruptcy of imagination,” reflect an attempt to rekindle civic virtue in a country where cynicism runs deep. Abdul seems to believe that demanding leaders refrain from coercion is insufficient, but Dogara’s point is that moral example must replace brute force. That is not mediocrity; it is the beginning of moral politics.

On the contrary, Dogara’s appeal is not messianic but moral. His invocation of leadership as a burden, not a prize, mirrors Abdul’s closing demands. Where they diverge is not in values but in tone. Dogara’s is constructive; Abdul’s, punitive. Both want a better country. One uses idealism to guide it. The other uses criticism to challenge it.

In closing, Abdul warns against slogans and spin. Yet he ironically mistakes a moral exhortation for political whitewash. Dogara didn’t confuse appearance for essence — he articulated essence as the ideal to which all presidents must be held. The real confusion lies in attacking the messenger instead of joining him to demand more from those in power.

Ayuba Mohammed Bello is a former member of the House of Representatives

Misreading the mirror

I have just read the rejoinder by a certain Ayuba Mohammed Bello to my op-ed, an exercise, it seems, in selective outrage. It opens with accusation and closes with deflection. In between, it struggles to wrap sentiment in the robe of philosophy, but only manages to twist my intent and misstate the very premise I invoked. What it offers is not critique, but confusion – a confusion of tone, of meaning, of motive. It casts my disagreement as a betrayal of friendship, as if principle must always kneel before fraternity. And worse, it suggests that envy, not argument, fuels my pen. This is not just a misreading. It is a deliberate reshaping of discourse into grievance.

Let’s be clear: my piece was not an attack on Dogara, nor was it an attempt to assassinate his character, as Ayuba or his ghost writer claims. It was an interrogation of Dogara’s words, particularly his invocation of Plutarch’s philosophy on leadership and the “power of example”, delivered in a moment and setting that rendered the message contradictory. In specific terms, my original piece called attention to the gap between rhetoric and reality. 

I interrogated the political implications of Dogara’s statement at Archbishop John Praise’s birthday. Dogara’s invocation of Plutarch’s “power of example” was the focal point. I questioned the appropriateness of deploying such lofty philosophical ideals in praise of President Bola Tinubu, especially given the dire realities under Tinubu’s administration. That was the issue. That is still the issue.

But instead of engaging this point, Ayuba deflected. He painted my criticism as a personal attack, driven by envy, resentment, and bitterness. This rhetorical strategy is familiar. When ideas are hard to refute, the temptation is to attack the speaker. I was not spared. I was accused of intellectual betrayal and personal animosity. Yet, nowhere in my piece did I cast aspersions on Dogara’s character. 

What I did was examine the dissonance between words and context. Criticism of a politician who relishes intellectual debates, and in fact, who engages in them, is not betrayal. Dissent is not envy. But Ayuba would have the readers believe otherwise. He accuses me of being driven by envy. That is neither an argument nor a rebuttal; it is a rhetorical smear designed to silence conversation and guillotine discourse. 

When a rejoinder opens with an attack on motive, whether envy, bitterness, or resentment, it abandons the terrain of logic. I didn’t challenge Dogara’s legacy or the status he has acquired. After all, politics is a calling, not a contest of personal trophies. It doesn’t lend itself to easy measurements as Ayuba makes out. No scoreboard exists to tally virtue or vision. 

Yet, the ledger of politics is written in the fate of nations. Its failures lie strewn in the ruins leaders leave behind – broken institutions, deepened poverty, shattered hope. Its successes bloom in the quiet triumphs of the people – in schools that open, hospitals that function, and futures that no longer feel like fiction. We may not measure the politician, but we can measure the aftermath. 

The true audit is in the life of the citizen, not the legacies claimed by politicians and their megaphones. Where people thrive, politics has served. Where despair deepens, it has failed. Politics is its own proof. Presence in the arena is the measure, not applause from the stands. To judge a political life by material markers is to misunderstand its essence. 

Here, any response to the content and political context of Dogara’s remarks is a legitimate democratic function. Public men must expect their public utterances to be scrutinised. In a democracy, we do not elevate service to sainthood. We examine words and hold them up to the light of principle. I did just that.

Ayuba attempts to suggest that I misread the philosophical underpinnings of Dogara’s remarks, though he wasn’t brave enough to provide examples of my misreading. This is false. I made a precise distinction: Plutarch’s “power of example” is not ornamental; it is evaluative. It demands congruence between virtue and action, between the modesty of private life and the conduct of public duty. 

When Dogara invoked that concept at an occasion that ordinarily should not have elicited such, he collapsed into an endorsement of Tinubu. I grant him the democratic right to praise, but praise becomes problematic at a time when millions of Nigerians are hungry, afraid, and hopeless. He invoked the language of moral leadership of a president who has presided over inflation, insecurity, and social decay. That is where criticism bites. Not at Dogara’s character, but at the contradiction in his rhetoric.

Ayuba insists that Dogara issued a moral challenge, not a political endorsement. But speeches are judged in context. Offering a philosophical salute in the time of mass hunger and renewed hopelessness is not a challenge; it is camouflage. It softens the sharp edges of failure and perfumes political rot with borrowed virtue.

Now, with reference to the less important point, I didn’t claim to be more righteous than Dogara. I simply argued that Dogara’s invocation of moral leadership was hollow, given the setting and recipient of his praise. That’s not envy. That’s the type of moral interrogation you find in discursive inquiries. It is unfortunate that Ayuba finds discursive inquiries a betrayal. But the real betrayal lies in offering moral cover to failed leadership. Friendship is not a gag order. Comradeship is not complicity. That is not betrayal. That is civic courage. 

Further,  Ayuba writes of my “bitterness.” But the bitter thing in his drivel is the attempt to silence dissent. My language was firm, not disrespectful. My criticism was philosophical, not personal. The same cannot be said for Ayuba’s rejoinder, which reads more like a paid piper than a principled engagement.

Let us return to the original issue. Should we praise leaders who fail? Should we quote Plutarch beside men who trample justice? Should we use moral language to legitimise political actors who govern without moral clarity?

I say no. 

Dogara may have meant well. He is a politician. Like many politicians in our country, he framed his remarks in political terms, not minding the moral implications. He chose an occasion that called for moral inspection and the interrogation of the crises that confront our country. In politics, timing is substance. Context is content. Unfortunately, Ayuba overlooks this point.  

Nigeria is in crisis. Words matter. Rhetoric matters. When public figures speak, their words shape public memory. They must not be used to decorate failure but to demand principle.

That is what I did. And that is what more citizens must do—if our democracy is to mean anything. Abdul Mahmud is a human rights attorney in Abuja