The air in Abuja’s Council Chambers hung thick with collective grief as President Bola Tinubu stood before an expanded Federal Executive Council session to orchestrate a profound symbolic gesture. With flags flying at half-mast nationwide following former President Muhammadu Buhari’s passing, Tinubu framed the renaming of the University of Maiduguri as a moral imperative. “May we now adopt the University of Maiduguri as the Muhammadu Buhari University,” he declared, embedding this act within Nigeria’s ritual of collective memory-making during a government-declared week of mourning. The timing was meticulously significant—a mere two days after Buhari’s burial in Daura—positioning the renaming not as bureaucratic procedure but as an act of national consecration to crystallize Buhari’s “discipline, patriotism, and incorruptible standard” into institutional permanence. Tinubu’s language evoked sacred duty, though the notable absence of former First Lady Aisha Buhari hinted at private fissures beneath the orchestrated unity.
Tinubu’s Canonization Narrative
In his eulogy, Tinubu sculpted Buhari’s legacy with deliberate brushstrokes: “a good man, a decent man, an honourable man” who resisted “the trappings of power.” He spotlighted their 2015 coalition that enabled Nigeria’s first democratic power transfer between parties—framing Buhari as democracy’s quiet midwife. The tribute emphasized Buhari’s post-presidential modesty: returning to Daura without “command[ing] from the shadows,” embodying Tinubu’s vision of virtuous retirement. Education officials amplified this narrative, declaring the renaming would embed Buhari’s “values of service, integrity, and excellence” into academia, presenting him as a model for future generations.
The Silenced Complexities
Yet the ceremony glossed over searing critiques. While Tinubu conceded “no leader is perfect,” substantive examination of Buhari’s economic management remained absent. Critics noted the bitter irony: Buhari died in a London hospital after years of medical tourism, while Nigeria’s public healthcare crumbled. Security investments in Borno were cited to justify renaming UNIMAID, yet the university itself endured devastating Boko Haram attacks during his presidency—a paradox unaddressed in official tributes. This selective memorialization ignited accusations of historical whitewashing, reducing a complex eight-year presidency to a sanitized narrative of moral infallibility that overlooked documented governance challenges and policy controversies.
Institutional Identity at a Crossroads
Established in 1975 under the Third National Development Plan, UNIMAID began humbly with 743 students across three faculties, inheriting infrastructure from the North East College of Arts and Science. Today, it stands as the Northeast’s academic fortress: over 83,000 students, 37 faculties and centers, and 103 departments spanning dentistry to veterinary medicine—a beacon operating through insurgency when peer institutions shuttered. Its unofficial motto, “If you want to be made, come to UNIMAID,” encapsulates five decades of regional pride and resilience. Rebranding to “Muhammadu Buhari University, Maiduguri” threatens to eclipse this organic identity. Academics privately fear logistical chaos—rebranding certificates, transcripts, and international partnerships—while students mourn a name that symbolized defiance against extremism during the university’s most traumatic years of suicide bombings and campus lockdowns.
Supporters: Cementing a Hero’s Immortality
Northern political elites championed the move as historically justified. Buhari’s son Yusuf called it “profoundly honorable,” while ex-presidential aides highlighted Buhari’s multifaceted ties to Borno: military governor in 1975, troop commander during Chad conflicts, and the state he visited most frequently during his presidency. Pro-government voices argued that Buhari’s blood connection through his Kanuri mother made the naming appropriate, with one journalist noting: “He visited Borno more than Katsina or Kano where he was also deeply loved.” Supporters framed it as natural recognition for a leader whose security policies they believe protected the institution during its most vulnerable years, transforming the university into a living monument to his counterinsurgency legacy.
Critics: Erasure and Political Calculation
Opposition erupted from multiple fronts. Lecturers anonymously decried “politicizing education” while libraries lack books and laboratories crumble, seeing the renaming as diverting attention from chronic underfunding. Alumni petitions with over 1,600 signatures called UNIMAID “a 50-year brand of resilience” now sacrificed for political symbolism. Regional residents protested the saturation of Buhari’s name across local infrastructure—the Muhammadu Buhari Airport, Muhammadu Buhari Mega School, Muhammadu Buhari Trauma Centre, and Muhammadu Buhari Senate Building already dotting the landscape. The most piercing critique questioned why UNIMAID was targeted instead of newer institutions like Daura’s University of Transportation, with one academic noting the incongruity: “It’s like renaming Harvard after a president—unthinkable without overwhelming consensus.”
Why Maiduguri Matters
Tinubu’s choice of UNIMAID—not Buhari’s hometown Daura—reveals shrewd political and symbolic calculation. Borno represents Buhari’s defining presidential struggle: the protracted war against Boko Haram. By anchoring Buhari’s legacy here, Tinubu positions him as regional savior, overshadowing critiques of security failures during his administration. This continues Tinubu’s 2023 renaming of Maiduguri Airport after Buhari, crafting a “memory corridor” in Nigeria’s conflict heartland. The move simultaneously courts Buhari’s northern political base—essential for Tinubu’s 2027 reelection calculus—while projecting Tinubu’s credentials as a “legacy curator” who honors allied predecessors. However, the vocal backlash reveals the risks: many Borno residents resent their institutions becoming “Buhari’s memorial plaque,” seeing it as cultural appropriation of their regional identity for national political theater.
Nigeria’s Renaming Traditions
This decision fits Nigeria’s established pattern where institutional names become political currency. From MKO Abiola Airport to Abuja National Hospital’s renaming after opposition figure David Mark, such acts reflect power dynamics more than historical consensus. The recent renaming of University of Abuja after Yakubu Gowon set immediate precedent. Buhari himself renamed Oye Ekiti university after General Adeyinka Adebayo in 2021, normalizing the practice. Globally, such renamings aim to crystallize national values, but Nigeria’s tendency to honor leaders immediately after death invites accusations of haste and partisanship. The critical question remains: Will “Muhammadu Buhari University” evolve like Obafemi Awolowo University—organically embraced through decades—or remain a polarizing monument to contemporary political alliances?
The Battle for Historical Perception
Media narratives reveal Nigeria’s divided historical consciousness. State-aligned outlets amplified Tinubu’s “statesmanlike decision,” framing it as natural recognition for an exemplary leader. Critical platforms spotlighted the dissonance between Buhari’s London medical care and Nigeria’s healthcare decay. Social media became the true battleground: Facebook filled with alumni lamenting “Thank God I graduated before this,” Twitter threads dissecting Buhari’s educational background, and Instagram petitions framing UNIMAID as “the beacon of hope we defended with pens amid bullets.” This digital dissent revealed generational rifts—younger Nigerians predominantly saw sanitization of flawed leadership, while older citizens embraced patriarchal homage traditions. The university’s identity became contested territory between government-curated legacy and grassroots historical memory.
The renaming of UNIMAID transcends bureaucratic rebranding; it represents Nigeria wrestling with its historical conscience. By etching “Muhammadu Buhari University” onto academic gates, Tinubu seeks to freeze a contested legacy into marble—a “moral compass” for future generations. Yet the furious pushback proves Nigerians refuse passive receipt of state-curated history. As students enter “MBU Maiduguri” next semester, they’ll inherit not just classrooms but an ongoing interrogation: Can institutions bear the weight of complex legacies? Does honoring one leader diminish others’ contributions? The true test lies beyond signage—in whether this act inspires unity through honest reflection, or deepens divides through selective memory. For now, Buhari’s legacy remains unwritten, awaiting the verdict of time and truth in a nation still defining its historical values.
