Truth, memory and national healing

The launch of My Life of Duty and Allegiance, the autobiography of former Nigerian Head of State Yakubu Gowon, has once again reopened one of the most painful chapters in Nigeria’s history, the Civil War. While autobiographies often serve as important historical records, they can also stir emotions, revive unresolved grievances and deepen divisions when not handled with caution, sensitivity and balance.

At the Abuja launch of the memoir, Gowon himself declared that the book was “meant not to reopen old wounds”. Yet, the very revelations emerging from the autobiography have done precisely that. From claims about how Obafemi Awolowo allegedly intervened to save Murtala Mohammed from dismissal during the war, to Gowon’s reflections on why Chukwuemeka Odumegwu Ojukwu was never meant to be captured or killed, the memoir has triggered fresh debates across ethnic, political and generational lines.

No nation can build a stable future on falsehood. History matters and truth matters. The experiences of war, injustice and leadership decisions must be documented for posterity. Nations such as South Africa, Rwanda and even Germany have shown that confronting painful history can help societies heal and mature. However, truth must also be managed responsibly. There is a difference between historical honesty and historical provocation.

Nigeria today is not the Nigeria of 1970, as it is currently deeply fractured along ethnic, religious and political lines. Distrust among regions is high. Separatist agitations persist in parts of the South-East. Political discourse is increasingly toxic, while economic hardship has worsened social tensions. In such a fragile atmosphere, reopening sensitive wartime controversies without the balancing voices of other key actors can create more heat than healing.

Most of those directly involved in the war – Ojukwu, Murtala Mohammed, Olusegun Obasanjo in his prime years, and several senior military officers – are either dead or unable to fully engage in historical rebuttals. This reality raises legitimate concerns about one-sided historical narratives becoming accepted as uncontested truth.

Indeed, one of the major dangers of autobiographies by political leaders is that memory itself is subjective. Leaders often write from the perspective of self-justification, legacy preservation or selective recollection, which is not unique to Nigeria. Around the world, memoirs by wartime leaders have frequently sparked controversy because history is rarely black and white. What one man sees as patriotism, another may interpret as aggression. What one side calls national unity, another remembers as oppression.

This does not mean Gowon should have remained silent. Far from it, as Nigeria desperately needs honest documentation of its past. Younger generations deserve to understand the causes, mistakes and lessons of the Civil War. However, the ideal approach would have been a broader national historical reconciliation process rather than isolated personal recollections capable of inflaming passions.

Nations emerging from conflict often adopt institutional mechanisms for truth-telling and reconciliation. South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission allowed multiple voices to be heard publicly, creating space for collective healing rather than individual historical ownership. Rwanda, after the genocide, adopted a careful balance between remembrance and national unity, recognising that unguarded narratives could reopen dangerous ethnic wounds.

Nigeria never truly had such a comprehensive reconciliation process after the Civil War. The famous “No Victor, No Vanquished” declaration helped end active hostilities, but it did not fully heal emotional and structural divisions. Many wounds remained buried beneath the surface. Questions about abandoned property, post-war discrimination, military excesses and ethnic distrust were never comprehensively addressed. Decades later, these unresolved tensions still shape national politics.

That is why every public intervention concerning the war must be approached with caution. Some truths, though historically valid, can become combustible when presented without context, balance or timing. A responsible nation must constantly weigh the value of disclosure against the potential consequences for national cohesion.

The implications of reopening divisive historical debates today are serious. First, it risks reinforcing ethnic victimhood narratives that already dominate political discourse. Second, it may deepen mistrust among younger Nigerians who did not witness the war but are increasingly exposed to emotionally charged interpretations online. Third, it can distract from the urgent need for national unity at a time of insecurity, economic instability and democratic fragility.

Nigeria cannot afford another cycle of mutual suspicion. The nation already battles terrorism, banditry, separatist tensions and worsening poverty. What we need now is leadership that promotes healing, inclusion and a shared sense of destiny, not historical contests capable of reviving old animosities.

The ideal situation, therefore, is not silence but responsible remembrance. Historical accounts should encourage reflection, empathy and learning rather than triumphalism or blame. The Civil War should be studied honestly in schools, researched openly by scholars and discussed maturely in national discourse. But such discussions must always prioritise reconciliation over recrimination.

Ultimately, the greatest lesson from Nigeria’s Civil War should not be who was right or wrong, but the terrible cost of division itself. Millions died as families shattered and national trust collapsed, and more than five decades later, Nigeria still struggles with the aftershocks.

If Gowon’s autobiography can inspire Nigerians to recommit themselves to unity, justice and dialogue, then it will serve a noble purpose. But if it merely reopens old ethnic scars without fostering deeper reconciliation, then our nation risks learning history the wrong way.