Let me be clear, without ambiguity: I do not know President Bola Ahmed Tinubu personally. I have never met him. I seek no favor from him. I write not as a beneficiary of his political circle, nor as someone hoping to secure access or future privilege. I write purely and entirely as a psychologist, as a thinker, and as a concerned observer of human society. I write as someone who has dedicated decades of study and practice to understanding why people act the way they do, how they transform, and how societies often err when they weaponize the past to define someone’s present without pause for growth, reform, or grace.
And so, when I speak now about the recent U.S. federal court ruling compelling the FBI and DEA to release records tied to an old drug probe involving Tinubu, I do so with clinical clarity and ethical intent—not political loyalty. This is not about defending Tinubu the politician. It is about defending the human journey, which includes imperfection, error, change, and the potential for redemption.
The Chicago Saga: A Mirror of National Mistrust and Psychological Projection
Public scrutiny of President Bola Ahmed Tinubu has long hovered around two central pillars of controversy—one involving his educational record, and the other a financial forfeiture linked to a U.S. drug investigation. Both incidents, while separated by time and legal context, have fused in the national imagination to form a single, powerful narrative of suspicion. But to understand what these cases truly reveal—about Tinubu, about Nigeria, and about ourselves—we must look deeper. Not just at the facts, but at the psychology behind our responses to them.
In the heat of the 2023 electoral season, public attention reignited around allegations that Tinubu had forged academic credentials from Chicago State University (CSU). A legal process in the United States forced the university to release relevant records. The goal, at least publicly, was truth. The unspoken goal for many, however, was confirmation of longstanding suspicion.
When CSU’s Registrar Caleb Westberg testified under oath that Tinubu had indeed attended the university between 1977 and 1979, and that the institution had awarded him a degree, the official confirmation should have quieted the storm. But it didn’t. Instead, large segments of the Nigerian population rejected the testimony outright—or dismissed it as a cover-up.
Why? Because the suspicion did not begin with documents—it began with emotional injury. In a country battered by chronic lies, inflated titles, and credential fraud, trust is no longer rational—it’s emotional. And when people have been betrayed too often, even the truth looks suspicious.
But the academic record was only part of the story.
Years earlier, another case had fueled the distrust that now clouds all else: the 1993 civil forfeiture of $460,000 from accounts linked to Bola Tinubu by the United States Department of Justice. The funds, according to U.S. authorities, were believed to be proceeds from a narcotics trafficking operation involving a heroin ring in the Chicago area. The case was civil, not criminal—meaning Tinubu was not arrested, indicted, or convicted. It ended with the government seizing the funds through a negotiated forfeiture—a legal closure that does not carry the weight of a guilty verdict but does create a permanent cloud of ambiguity.
It was a strategic legal outcome: final, silent, unresolved in moral terms. And for many Nigerians, that silence became the breeding ground for imagination. Over time, a single forfeiture file turned into a lasting mythos of guilt, deceit, and corruption.
From a legal perspective, the case is over. It was never criminal. It was closed over three decades ago. But in the psychological memory of a wounded public, it never really ended.
This is what psychologists refer to as trauma looping—when unresolved emotional pain recycles itself in new contexts. Each time Tinubu appears in the public eye, each time he ascends to new political power, the old story returns—not necessarily because of new wrongdoing, but because the public has never been able to process the past with resolution. So long as there is no trial, no confession, and no definitive moral closure, the suspicion regenerates itself.
The CSU certificate saga and the U.S. forfeiture case now act as mirrors for a nation still struggling with its own image. When people can no longer trust leaders, they begin to suspect everything. And when people cannot reconcile the idea that a flawed man can rise to lead, they begin to believe that no leadership is ever truly legitimate.
But what do we lose when we allow the emotional scars of the past to define how we interpret the present?
We lose balance. We lose the capacity to recognize that human beings evolve. We lose the maturity to accept that leadership is often forged through fire—that many who lead today did not start clean, but became clean through lived experience. And perhaps worst of all, we lose the ability to build systems that allow for transparency without falling into vengeance disguised as accountability.
As a psychologist, I am not interested in whitewashing the past. Tinubu’s history is complicated. The forfeiture file is real. The CSU documentation has now been verified. But neither the money seized in 1993 nor the testimony of 2023 tells us all that we need to know about the man standing in office today.
What matters most now is what he does as president. Does he repeat the mistakes of yesterday, or does he demonstrate growth? Does he carry the nation forward or further damage its moral spine? These are the living questions. The past must inform them—but it must not drown them.
Let us not be a nation so traumatized by history that we become blind to the possibility of progress.
The Human Reality: We Are All Flawed, and We All Grow
In the field of psychology, we are trained to look at the entire timeline of a human life. No moment stands in isolation. No decision is the full definition of a man or woman. A person is not just their worst deed, just as they are not only their greatest achievement. The reality is that every single one of us has a past—some documented, some hidden. Some criminal, some moral. Some public, some private.
But what defines us is not our fall—but how we rise.
There is no doubt that Tinubu’s early years, particularly during his time in the U.S., were marked by controversy. But since then, he has lived through decades of active political life—serving as governor of Lagos State, enduring exile and persecution, helping to build a major political coalition, and eventually becoming president of the most populous Black nation on earth. This is not the life path of a man stuck in old habits. It is the arc of a man who, like all of us, has changed over time.
Trump, Clinton, Bush, Obama: Leadership Despite Past Scars
This phenomenon is not uniquely Nigerian. In fact, some of the world’s most visible and powerful democracies—especially the United States—have repeatedly elected leaders with complex, morally conflicted, and even publicly scandalous histories. Rather than automatically disqualify such individuals, democratic societies often wrestle with their flaws, weigh their pasts against their promises, and ultimately entrust them with leadership based on what they represent in the present.
Take Donald J. Trump, for example. He ascended to the U.S. presidency despite being surrounded by a cloud of enduring legal and moral controversy. His history included inflammatory remarks on race, including the infamous Central Park Five statements, a fraud settlement linked to Trump University, multiple accusations of sexual misconduct, and two separate impeachment proceedings. As of this writing, he faces numerous criminal indictments, and yet, he remains a central political force—actively campaigning for another term in office. One may ask why. The answer is complex, but rooted in democratic principle: In a functioning democracy, past behavior does not automatically cancel present legitimacy. It is the people, not perfection, that determine who leads.
Similarly, Bill Clinton, often remembered as a charismatic and intellectually sophisticated president, was impeached for perjury after lying under oath about an affair with a White House intern. But Clinton’s political journey was littered with personal controversy long before that scandal broke. Despite it all, he was not defined solely by those personal failings. He governed during a period of economic boom, presided over a budget surplus, and was instrumental in global diplomacy, including U.S. intervention in Kosovo and efforts at peace in the Middle East.
Then there is George W. Bush, a man who openly acknowledged his struggles with alcoholism and publicly confirmed he had been arrested for driving under the influence (DUI) in the 1970s. In his own words, he had made “mistakes of youth”—admitting to a phase of his life marked by recklessness and a lack of discipline. Yet when the American people elected him president, they were not endorsing his past; they were expressing belief in his growth, his faith, and his perceived capacity for leadership.
Even Barack Obama, often held as a symbol of moral clarity and intellectual refinement, did not shy away from confronting his own history. In his memoir Dreams from My Father, Obama frankly admitted to experimenting with alcohol, marijuana, and even cocaine during his younger years. These were not revelations leaked by enemies—they were honest reflections, offered by a man who understood the power of transparency. And instead of diminishing him, those admissions humanized him. They allowed voters to see a real person—a flawed youth who evolved into a reflective, responsible adult. Obama went on to lead not only the United States, but also a global movement grounded in hope, dignity, and inclusion.
So, what unites these men?
Not their scandals. Not their successes. But the fact that they were all imperfect individuals entrusted with enormous responsibility by societies mature enough to understand that leadership is not the absence of failure—it is often the product of failure transformed into wisdom.
Are these leaders flawless? Far from it. Are they contradictions? Absolutely. But that is the point. In the real world—outside of idealized fantasy—leadership emerges from complex human stories, not fairy tales. And those stories include struggle, regret, reinvention, and growth.
This is a truth that every maturing democracy must come to accept: Leaders are not born perfect. They are shaped through pain, through reform, and through the long journey of becoming. The task of the electorate is not to find saints, but to recognize humans who have faced their pasts, learned from them, and shown signs of responsible evolution. To demand flawlessness is to seek illusions. To accept growth is to choose reality—and, possibly, progress.
Selective Condemnation: When Judgment Becomes a Convenient Performance
There’s something telling—almost unsettling—about how both the United States and Nigeria have embraced the art of selective outrage. In America, a nation that has elected presidents who have openly admitted to using cocaine, struggled with alcohol, committed perjury, faced allegations of sexual misconduct, and even incited insurrection, there is now an oddly timed moral concern over President Bola Tinubu’s three-decade-old forfeiture case and academic records from Chicago. If those documents suddenly carry this much moral weight, perhaps we should brace ourselves for more—his library card history, parking tickets, or maybe what soda he bought in 1982. Let’s be honest: this isn’t just about justice—it’s entangled with global posturing, media timing, and political convenience.
And here in Nigeria, the contradiction is more subtle—but no less significant. While much energy is spent dissecting Tinubu’s past—from the civil forfeiture of funds in the 1990s to questions around his educational records, now clarified—we often lose sight of the present. As of now, the president is on another foreign engagement in France, and while such trips may be routine for international diplomacy, they occur against a backdrop of real economic strain and public frustration. Many citizens are contending with erratic electricity, strained healthcare, unpaid salaries, and lingering insecurity. These are the issues that weigh most heavily on daily life.
Yet somehow, our national conversation remains dominated by what happened thirty years ago, rather than what can be done today to ease the burden on Nigerians. This is not to fault the presidency for every crisis—but to suggest that our focus as a people should be better balanced. While history matters, it should not blind us to the challenges of the present. The need for good governance, prudent use of public resources, and urgent attention to citizen welfare must guide our conversations more than documents long settled by foreign courts.
Our outrage is no longer guided by ethics or justice, but by personal preference and tribal allegiance. We look away when our favored politicians loot in real time but demand the public execution—at least in rhetoric—of someone whose alleged sins are buried in decades-old foreign paperwork. A man who forfeited funds to the U.S. Treasury in 1993 is still villainized, while those currently bleeding Nigeria’s coffers dry walk proudly across national television sets, hailed by party supporters and hailed by crowds with short memory.
This isn’t about truth—it’s about emotional displacement. A society deeply wounded by corruption, failed leadership, and historic betrayal will often look for a single figure to carry the collective blame. It’s psychological projection, and while understandable, it also misses the point. The issue isn’t only Tinubu’s past—it’s what we are all ignoring in the present.
So yes, let the records be released. Let more files come out. But let the questions grow sharper, too: Where is the national wealth going today? Why is the presidency always in motion, but the people remain stuck? Why is our anger louder for Chicago than it is for Abuja?
Because if we are not careful, we will stay trapped in the pages of old scandals, while new disasters write themselves in real time—and we say nothing, until it’s too late.
The Psychological Toll of Eternal Condemnation
Societies that do not allow people to evolve will forever remain psychologically stuck. If we teach the next generation that a single error, no matter how far in the past, will destroy your future, we are cultivating a culture of shame, fear, and inauthenticity. People will stop confessing. Leaders will bury truth. Citizens will lose hope in rehabilitation. And worst of all, we will destroy the very idea of human growth.
What message are we sending when we say that Tinubu must be forever condemned for a forfeiture case from his thirties, even though he is now in his seventies? Are we saying that growth is impossible? That redemption is fiction? That transformation is a lie?
Let Us Focus on the Now: The President Before Us
The urgent task before Nigerians today is not to exhume the corpse of 1993—but to examine the heart of 2025. The focus must be on how Tinubu is leading Nigeria today. Is he upholding the rule of law? Is he fighting or enabling corruption? Is he protecting the Nigerian people? Is he ensuring fairness in appointments, strengthening democracy, and confronting our many national crises with vision?
Those are the real questions. Because even if his past were clean, a poor performance in the present would still matter more. Conversely, even if his past is troubled, a redemptive and responsible presidency would still offer hope.
Conclusion: Truth, Humanity, and a Nation’s Emotional Maturity
Let me say it again, clearly: I do not speak for Tinubu. I speak for truth, for perspective, and for a nation that must learn to judge wisely, not impulsively. Yes, demand accountability. Yes, interrogate history. But do not forget the human being behind the headline. Do not deny the possibility of change. And do not let your desire to expose someone’s past blind you to their potential in the present.
Tinubu is not above scrutiny. But scrutiny must be fair. Balanced. Contextual. Rooted in a full understanding of what it means to be human.
That was then. This is now.
And in between lies a life—full of imperfection, full of controversy, full of growth.
Let us be a society that remembers the past but refuses to live inside it.
Let us build a democracy mature enough to hold its leaders accountable—not for who they once were, but for who they are now.
