There are books written by leaders to immortalize themselves, and there are books written by leaders to justify themselves. Not My Will often feels like it is trying to do both, and yet—sometimes unintentionally—it exposes the very contradictions that have shaped Nigeria’s political destiny. Reading General Olusegun Obasanjo’s account is like walking through a corridor lined with mirrors: every reflection is sharp, authoritative, self-assured, and yet beneath the surface, one senses shadows—questions that demand answers, silences that echo louder than the loudest claims, and a nation’s history struggling to breathe under the weight of a single man’s narrative.
Obasanjo writes with the conviction of someone who believes strongly in his own indispensability to Nigeria’s story. He narrates the Civil War period, his role in battle strategy, the eventual surrender by Biafra, and his rise within the military hierarchy with the confidence of a man who considers himself an instrument of history. Yet the reader must constantly ask: is this confidence truth, or is it memory gilded by the subtle vanity that comes with power? Was Obasanjo the quiet architect of stability he claims to be, or is he simply rearranging the furniture of history to cast himself in the most flattering light?
Nigeria’s struggles during the 1970s—military rule, economic instability, competing ethnic tensions—frame the first movement of the book, and Obasanjo’s emergence as Head of State following Murtala Mohammed’s assassination forms one of its most dramatic arcs. Here, Not My Will insists on presenting him as a reluctant soldier-statesman, almost a man pushed forward by destiny rather than ambition. But can any Nigerian believe fully in such political humility? Was he truly the man who simply stepped into a vacuum for the sake of the nation, or was he already groomed, prepared, positioned for the very seat he claims he did not seek?
As the narration transitions into his democratic years, the book becomes even more interesting—and even more contested. He asserts moral clarity, anti-corruption zeal, and national unity as his guiding principles. Yet Nigeria remembers differently. It remembers the Odi massacre, the Zaki Biam tragedy, the third-term allegations, the internal party battles, and the profound regional discontent that simmered beneath the surface of his administration. Reading these passages, the questions rise like heat: Is this omission strategic? Is this silence accidental? Is leadership remembered differently by those who wield power than by those who endure its consequences?
One of the most intriguing tensions in the book lies in his portrayal of ethnic dynamics, particularly the Igbo question, the Yoruba burden, and the northern political calculus. Obasanjo often writes as if he alone stands above ethnic loyalties, as if he is the rare Nigerian immune to tribal pull. But can this truly be believed? Was he truly as neutral as he paints himself, or did he practice the same balancing politics, patronage networks, and regional calculations his book subtly condemns in others?
And then comes the delicate matter of truth. Is Not My Will an honest confession or a curated recollection? Is it a diary of integrity or a memoir of self-preservation? There are moments when Obasanjo offers sharp self-critique, moments where he seems willing to question his own decisions, but they are few, brief, and often softened by explanations that border on absolution. A reader seeking full vulnerability might be left wondering whether the former president ever truly confronts himself on the page, or whether he maintains the armor he has worn throughout his public life.
Yet it would be unfair—indeed intellectually dishonest—to dismiss the book as mere self-mythology. There is depth here. There is wisdom drawn from experience, reflections sharpened by war, governance, imprisonment, loss, redemption, and the shifting tides of national politics. There are moments of sincerity buried within the narrative where Obasanjo reveals the loneliness of leadership, the weight of expectation, and the relentless scrutiny that follows a man who has lived at the center of Nigeria’s public life for over five decades.
Still, the greatest achievement of Not My Will is not necessarily its truth, but its invitation. It invites us to interrogate Nigeria’s journey, to question the stories told by those who led us, to examine the distance between official history and lived reality. It forces us to grapple with the central dilemma of Nigerian nationhood: Do our leaders ever truly tell us the full truth? And if they do not, is it because the truth is too fragile, too dangerous, or simply too inconvenient for the legacies they wish to preserve?
In the end, the book becomes a mirror not only of Obasanjo, but of Nigeria itself—an unfinished country searching for coherence, a nation where every narrative is contested, every hero is complicated, and every truth is layered with suspicion. Reading Not My Will is reading Nigeria: bold, inconsistent, dramatic, brilliant, flawed, ambitious, wounded, defiant.
Whether Obasanjo is telling the truth or telling his truth is left for each reader to decide. What cannot be denied is that he has written a book that demands engagement, provokes argument, and refuses to fade quietly into the background of Nigeria’s history. It is a memoir of a man who believes his life is inseparable from the destiny of a nation, and whether one agrees or not, the effect is undeniably powerful.
This is not merely a book—it is a battleground of memory, power, ego, and nationhood. And it is impossible to read it without confronting the question that hangs over every page:
If this is “not his will,” then whose will has shaped Nigeria’s path—and who will write the final, unvarnished truth of our national story?
Every nation interrogates the memoirs of its rulers, but Nigeria’s interrogation of Not My Will is uniquely urgent. The book stands at the intersection of personal memory and national history, written by a man who has occupied almost every conceivable seat in Nigeria’s political theatre: soldier, commander, military ruler, prisoner, democratic president, elder statesman, and perennial commentator. To read Not My Will is to listen to a voice that has shaped Nigeria’s destiny, but the question remains—does the voice tell the full truth, or only the truth that preserves the speaker?
Autobiographies are never just narrations; they are arguments. They select, rearrange, emphasize, silence, defend, justify, and at times distort. Obasanjo’s memoir, ambitious as it is, cannot escape this reality. It is a carefully crafted story, framed by the consciousness of a man who knows he is writing under the judgment of history. This awareness shapes every paragraph. The tone is authoritative, the claims are confident, and the explanations are delivered with the self-assurance of one who believes his motives have always been aligned with national interest.
Yet nations, like individuals, are not always best defined by the stories their leaders tell about themselves. They are defined by contradictions, by conflicting memories, by the gaps between public rhetoric and private motives.
When Obasanjo recounts the Civil War period, he presents himself as a disciplined officer guided by patriotism. Scholars agree this depiction is partially accurate, but My Command, his earlier war memoir, has long been criticized for minimizing the contributions of other officers, overstating his centrality, and reframing contested decisions as uncontestable. The same pattern echoes in Not My Will, where complex political struggles are often distilled into narratives of personal sacrifice and reluctant duty. The historian must therefore read such passages with a sharpened eye, trained to detect not only what is said but what is packaged as inevitable or heroic.
His military transition to civilian rule—hailed globally as a landmark of statesmanship—is described with noble restraint. But archives, diplomatic cables, and testimonies from contemporaries suggest deeper tensions: regional bargaining, elite influence, and internal military pressures that are glossed over in the memoir. Silence is a kind of speech, and in Not My Will, several silences speak loudly.
The same applies to his democratic years, which he defends with moral clarity that often contrasts sharply with public memory. The book addresses corruption, but rarely with the introspective rigor Nigeria expects from a leader who commanded so much political machinery. It mentions political battles, but not with the transparency required to fully assess their origins or consequences. And perhaps most tellingly, Obasanjo’s reflections on the third-term agenda are couched in denial and frustration, yet significant evidence—including testimonies from legislators and party insiders—contradicts his claims. This is not to assert guilt, but to highlight the complexity of trusting political autobiographies at face value.
To judge Not My Will purely on whether every detail is accurate would be to misunderstand its purpose. The memoir does not claim to be a dispassionate historical account; it claims to be Obasanjo’s account. And this distinction is crucial. While the book illuminates important events, it often illuminates them from an angle that flatters the author’s intentions and frames his role with moral superiority. This does not make the book useless—it makes it incomplete.
Historians will continue to use Not My Will as a source, but never as the source. Like all political memoirs, it must sit side-by-side with archival records, eyewitness testimonies, opposing narratives, and the hard data of political analysis. It provides context, yes; insight, certainly; sincerity, occasionally; accuracy, sometimes; but neutrality—rarely.
The real value of Not My Will lies not in its infallibility but in its contradictions. It reveals as much through its omissions as through its revelations. It reflects the struggles of a man who has long believed himself chosen to interpret Nigeria’s destiny, yet who must now face the historian’s scalpel, the critic’s lens, and the nation’s memory.
So can Not My Will be trusted?
The answer is layered.
It can be trusted as a glimpse into Obasanjo’s mind, but not always into Nigeria’s truth.
It can be trusted as a personal testament, but not as a definitive chronicle.
It can be trusted for its sincerity of tone, but not for its completeness of fact.
It can be trusted to reveal the author’s intentions, but not always his motivations.
And above all, it can be trusted as one piece of a much larger, more complex historical puzzle.
The memoir is an essential document, but not a final verdict. Nigeria’s story, like all national stories, cannot be entrusted to one voice, however powerful that voice may be. In the end, Not My Will stands not as the complete truth of a nation, but as one man’s attempt to shape how the nation remembers him. It must be read with respect, with skepticism, with intellectual rigor, and with an understanding that history becomes true only when many voices, not just one, are allowed to speak.
By Jide Adesina
For 1stafrika.com
Jide Adesina is a cybersecurity consultant, humanitarian, author, and political activist with established expertise in counter-terrorism and governance affairs. He has written extensively on national security, human rights, and inter-ethnic conflict resolution. Jide has served and volunteered with United Nations programs across multiple regions and remains a committed advocate for equal justice, institutional accountability, and the rule of law
