Pius Nsabe
When Muhammadu Buhari rode a wave of popular frustration into Aso Rock in 2015, he did so under a banner of Spartan integrity and anti-corruption resolve. For many, he embodied the austere, no-nonsense military man who would, finally, bring discipline to the decadent corridors of Nigerian power. Now, nearly a decade after his inauguration and a year after his exit from power, his former spokesperson, Garba Shehu, has opened a revealing window into the private choices and financial discipline of the former president.
In According to the President: Lessons from a Presidential Spokesperson’s Experience, launched in Abuja, Shehu paints a portrait that aligns with Buhari’s long-cultivated image: a leader unimpressed by the lavish indulgences of power. Among the most startling revelations is Buhari’s rejection of a proposed N10 million monthly food budget for the State House. The figure—meant to cover the president, vice-president, official guests, and ceremonial banquets—was presented early in Buhari’s first term. His reaction was reportedly one of disbelief and disgust. “Look at my table, what do I eat? How much does it cost?” he is quoted as asking.
Shehu’s recollections serve to reinforce the narrative of Buhari as a president who not only talked about cutting waste but attempted to live it. His daily diet, according to Shehu, was a mix of simple Nigerian staples more likely found in working-class homes than presidential dining halls—tuwo, pap, akara, beans, wheat, salads, poultry, and mutton. The emphasis, the former spokesperson insists, was always on healthy and humble living.
It doesn’t end with food. In another striking anecdote, Shehu recalls how the president stopped the planned purchase of five custom Mercedes-Benz vehicles worth N400 million. The procurement had been set in motion during the twilight of Goodluck Jonathan’s administration. When briefed by the then Permanent Secretary of the State House, Nebolisa Emodi, Buhari reportedly asked, “What is wrong with the cars left behind by the former president?” and went on to instruct that they be retained for his use.
In a system where new power often means new cars, new furniture, and a budgetary reset cloaked in “national interest,” Buhari’s decision was seen as jarring. Yet, it was entirely consistent with the image he had built—and sold—to millions of Nigerians who had become disillusioned with a ruling class that seemed more interested in self-preservation than public service. According to Shehu, Buhari insisted that all State House operations remain within the boundaries of approved budgets and ordered the cessation of reliance on so-called “Presidential Intervention Funds,” which were notorious for enabling off-the-books spending sprees by previous administrations.
These actions are more than administrative footnotes. They speak to a larger debate about how power is practised—and performed—in Nigeria. Buhari’s choices reflect a conscious decision to resist the typical trappings of presidential authority. But they also highlight a complex contradiction: a leader championed for integrity, who governed during a period marked by economic hardship, rising insecurity, and controversial policy decisions that left many wondering whether a moral example alone is enough to change a nation’s fortunes.
One cannot examine Shehu’s account without situating it within the broader political and economic realities of Buhari’s presidency. His administration began at a time when Nigeria was reeling from the crash of oil prices, its currency battered, and its reserves shrinking. The president’s personal refusal to indulge in excess was, in many ways, a symbolic reassurance to a hurting nation. But symbolism, as powerful as it may be, doesn’t always translate into structural reform. Critics have often pointed out that Buhari’s government, despite his personal discipline, struggled with fiscal transparency, policy inertia, and accusations of selective anti-corruption campaigns.
Still, the former president’s personal habits may have helped define the tone of his leadership—even if inconsistently applied across his cabinet and agencies. Shehu’s recollection that Buhari consulted closely with permanent secretaries and agency heads during the early months of his presidency offers insight into a man methodical to a fault. That same deliberation contributed to his much-criticized delay in appointing ministers, leaving a governance vacuum that arguably set back his administration’s momentum in its critical first year.
Other parts of the memoir lift the veil on the hidden tensions and power dynamics within the presidency. In one account, Shehu writes that during one of Buhari’s extended medical absences abroad, when Vice President Yemi Osinbajo was acting president, certain government officials approached the late Chief of Staff, Abba Kyari, for access to a security vote. Malam Kyari’s response was unequivocal: “The president kept nothing to that effect.” The anecdote, while brief, underscores Buhari’s tight grip on fiscal decisions, a notable departure from previous administrations where such funds were often subject to discretionary use and abuse.
It’s easy to view these stories as either damage control or legacy building, especially in light of the severe public scrutiny Buhari faced during his presidency. Nigerians endured two recessions under his watch, inflation surged, and unemployment reached record highs. The dissonance between Buhari’s modest personal lifestyle and the systemic challenges his administration failed to decisively confront has left many citizens with mixed feelings. Did frugality at the top translate to fiscal discipline across the government? Or was it just an isolated virtue, admirable but ultimately ineffective in tackling Nigeria’s entrenched bureaucratic inefficiencies?
Shehu’s memoir doesn’t answer these questions directly. Instead, it offers snapshots—moments of clarity in the often-murky waters of Nigerian statecraft. The refusal to indulge in luxury, the insistence on internal controls, the preference for ordinary Nigerian meals—these are more than just stories of a frugal old general. They are deliberate acts of political theatre and personal conviction, projected onto the stage of national governance.
But even political theatre, when consistent and authentic, can shape narratives. Buhari’s aversion to extravagance set a standard that, if replicated across ministries and parastatals, might have reduced the public sector’s culture of entitlement. Unfortunately, as many analysts have observed, that replication never quite happened. Ministers lived large. Legislators continued to draw lavish allowances. Corruption cases remained widespread. The distance between Buhari’s dining table and the larger fiscal ecosystem of the federal government was vast.
For a man who once declared, “I belong to nobody, and I belong to everybody,” the task of transforming Nigeria was always going to be Herculean. Governance, unlike opposition politics, requires more than austerity and symbolism. It demands bold reforms, administrative efficiency, and the political will to dismantle vested interests. Buhari’s strength lay in personal conviction, but his presidency struggled with delegation, communication, and the flexibility needed to navigate Nigeria’s complex socio-political terrain.
Yet, there is undeniable value in personal example. In a nation where public officials routinely exploit office for personal gain, Buhari’s refusal to upgrade his vehicles or inflate his feeding budget is not a small matter. It serves as a moral compass—imperfect and insufficient, but still relevant. It is also a standard by which successors may be measured. Already, questions are being raised about the lifestyles of those who came after him, and whether the new custodians of power have inherited or abandoned Buhari’s ethos of moderation.
Garba Shehu’s memoir is not merely a tribute to a boss. It is a record—partial, perhaps—but a necessary addition to Nigeria’s evolving archive of governance narratives. For a public often denied the inner workings of the presidency, the details he shares offer glimpses of a leader who sought to live above the excesses of office, even if his government couldn’t fully do the same.
Ultimately, Buhari’s presidency will be debated for years to come—not just for what he did, but for what he didn’t do. His personal simplicity, now highlighted again through Shehu’s pen, remains one of the more unique features of Nigerian executive leadership in the Fourth Republic. Whether that simplicity mattered in the grand scheme of governance is a question still up for judgment.
As Nigeria grapples with persistent economic challenges, rising inequality, and widening trust gaps between the people and the state, the lessons of Buhari’s personal restraint may offer at least one enduring takeaway: that the optics of leadership—what it eats, what it drives, what it spends—still matter deeply in shaping public perception. In that sense, even in retirement, Buhari’s table remains a site of national reflection.