Pius Nsabe
When Garba Shehu, former Special Assistant on Media and Publicity to ex-President Muhammadu Buhari, admitted that the viral story about rodents invading the Presidential Villa was a calculated fabrication, it sent shockwaves through Nigeria’s political and media circles. His admission, tucked into Chapter 10 of his new book, “According to the President: Lessons from a Presidential Spokesperson’s Experience”, has confirmed what many suspected: that Nigerians were intentionally misled about the health of their president by a carefully engineered diversion.
The year was 2017. President Muhammadu Buhari had just returned to Nigeria on August 19 after nearly three months of medical treatment in the United Kingdom. By the time he returned, the nation was already awash with speculations, conspiracy theories, and genuine concern. It was not the first time a Nigerian president had vanished from public view during a critical time, but the length and opacity of Buhari’s medical leave elevated national anxiety.
It was in this vacuum of truth that Nnamdi Kanu, leader of the secessionist Indigenous People of Biafra (IPOB), famously claimed that Buhari had died in London and been replaced with a lookalike—an alleged clone named Jibrin from Sudan. While most dismissed the claim as outlandish, it gained traction among certain segments of the population, especially in the South-East, where distrust in the federal government was already deep.
Upon Buhari’s return, hopes for transparency were quickly dashed. Instead of appearing at his desk in Aso Rock, the President was reported to be working from home. The reason? Rodents, we were told, had invaded his office during his absence and damaged furniture and cabling. The news, which originated from Garba Shehu’s media team, quickly went viral, generating memes, ridicule, and global headlines. For days, the phrase “rats chased Buhari out of office” dominated both local and international media.
Now, years later, Shehu has confirmed that the story was entirely fabricated. According to him, it was not an innocent misunderstanding or a misreported maintenance issue—it was a strategic distraction designed to move public discourse away from the one thing the government was not prepared to discuss: Buhari’s health.
In the book, Shehu recounts a casual lunchtime conversation in the Chief of Staff’s office, where someone casually mentioned rats might have damaged unused equipment in the President’s office. Seizing the opportunity, Shehu turned that speculation into a press statement. As calls from journalists poured in, including inquiries from BBC Hausa, Shehu responded with a wild historical anecdote about rats that arrived in Nigeria in the 1980s on Southeast Asian rice ships and were capable of chewing anything in sight. It was far-fetched—but it caught fire.
The tactic worked. The media, both local and foreign, picked up the story. The public laughed, memes flourished, and news outlets from the BBC to Al Jazeera carried the headline. The focus had shifted—from Buhari’s health to Nigeria’s apparently mutant rodents. Even critics who recognized the absurdity of the story had, in essence, taken the bait.
Shehu has defended his actions as a necessary political spin. He told Vice President Yemi Osinbajo and then-Minister of Information Lai Mohammed that the goal was deliberate: to protect the President’s image and steer national conversation away from the dangerous territory of health-related succession debates. Both officials reportedly disagreed with his approach, believing it to be inappropriate and ill-advised.
But this confession does more than illuminate the inner workings of political communication in Nigeria. It forces the country to confront a fundamental question: what is the ethical boundary between strategic communication and deliberate deception?
Media spin is a known part of politics worldwide, but where that spin crosses into outright falsehood, especially regarding something as consequential as the health of a sitting president, it threatens the fabric of democratic accountability. At its heart, democracy demands that the governed have access to truth so that they can make informed decisions. When officials withhold that truth—worse, when they distract the public with lies—they violate a sacred trust.
In Nigeria, this practice is not new. The pattern of concealing presidential illness dates back decades. During the terminal months of President Umaru Musa Yar’Adua’s life in 2009–2010, the Nigerian state descended into a constitutional crisis. Yar’Adua was flown to Saudi Arabia for treatment and left the country in limbo for months. It took intense pressure from civil society, opposition parties, and a “Save Nigeria” protest movement to force the National Assembly to invoke the “Doctrine of Necessity” and hand over power to then-Vice President Goodluck Jonathan.
That episode left scars. Nigerians now expect opacity from their leaders, especially regarding health. Buhari’s administration, rather than breaking that pattern, reinforced it. Garba Shehu’s rat story may have worked in the short term, but it also reaffirmed the government’s unwillingness to level with the people.
The larger implication is this: if governments of the day can fabricate a tale as bizarre as a rodent invasion to avoid public scrutiny, could there be other important truths hidden from the people? Trust, once broken, is difficult to restore.
Shehu’s tale also exposes the weaknesses of Nigeria’s media landscape. While some journalists questioned the official narrative, many others repeated it uncritically. There was little investigative follow-up, and the story was quickly treated as comic relief. In doing so, the press—wittingly or not—amplified the government’s secretiveness.
But perhaps most disturbing is how easily Nigerians themselves accepted the story. Public outrage was minimal. The story was mocked, yes—but not deeply interrogated. It became yet another in a long line of surreal moments in Nigeria’s political history, from snakes allegedly swallowing missing funds at JAMB to legislators escaping impeachment by hiding in toilets. This normalization of absurdity is itself a national tragedy. It reflects a collective cynicism that sees the government as inherently dishonest and unaccountable.
That cynicism is dangerous. When citizens no longer expect honesty from their leaders, they disengage from the political process. They vote less, protest less, and hold their leaders accountable less. In such a context, democracy becomes a shell—procedural but not participatory.
Shehu’s confession also offers a stark lesson in the power of narratives. By controlling the story, even temporarily, governments can shape public focus, deflect criticism, and manage political risks. In a media environment flooded with information, what gets said—no matter how implausible—often matters more than what is left unsaid. And once a narrative catches on, even the truth struggles to reverse it.
Yet, in an ironic twist, Shehu’s book may have inadvertently undone the very spin he once engineered. By admitting to the fabrication, he has invited fresh scrutiny of that period and cast doubt on other official stories told by the Buhari administration. His candor may be admirable, but it also reopens issues Nigerians had laughed off.
It also raises questions about the role of presidential spokespeople. Are they servants of the truth or guardians of power? Can they be both? In democratic societies, the press secretary’s role is not merely to protect the image of the president but to serve as a bridge between government and the governed. That bridge collapses when it is not built on truth.
As Nigeria looks toward the future—with new generations of voters, a rapidly evolving digital media space, and increasingly vocal civil society—there must be a reckoning with the past. Politicians and their spokespersons must understand that transparency is not a weakness but a foundation of good governance. The health of a president is not a private matter—it is a national concern, especially in a country where leadership is often personalized and power is rarely shared.
In a time when fake news and disinformation already threaten the integrity of public discourse, it is even more important for governments to resist the urge to manipulate narratives. What Garba Shehu did may have seemed clever in the moment, but in the long run, it contributed to the erosion of public trust in a country that can scarcely afford more cynicism.
In the end, the rodent story is more than just a strange footnote in Nigeria’s political history. It is a case study in the dangers of media manipulation, the fragility of public trust, and the urgent need for a new political communication ethic—one rooted in honesty, accountability, and respect for the people.
Until then, the ghosts of fictional rats may continue to haunt the corridors of Nigerian power, reminding us of a time when spin took precedence over truth, and laughter replaced the outrage we should have felt.