Beyond policy or politics, Buhari’s prolonged absences from Nigeria due to ill health, often spent in London clinics, became emblematic of a larger issue—an indictment not just of the man, but of the system he led.

By Rose Ssali

Former Nigerian President Muhammadu Buhari has died in a London clinic after a prolonged illness. His passing marks the end of an era defined by both reformist ambitions and contested leadership. But more than the departure of a man, his death abroad stirs deep and uncomfortable questions—questions long asked in whispers and on pages like those of Anton Pillay’s Constructing a New World Order: why do African presidents and heads of state so often die in hospitals outside their own countries?

To understand the weight of that question, one must first understand who Buhari was.

Born in 1942 in Daura, in present-day Katsina State, Buhari rose from the dusty barracks of Nigeria’s north to become a figure of national consequence. He was a military man before he was a president—disciplined, austere, and committed to order. He first assumed power through a military coup in 1983, promising to cleanse a corrupt system. His brief tenure as military head of state was defined by rigid anti-corruption campaigns and a no-nonsense approach that earned both admiration and alarm.

After his ouster in 1985, Buhari retreated into the shadows of public life for decades before returning—this time as a civilian. In 2015, in a historic democratic transfer of power, Buhari defeated incumbent Goodluck Jonathan to become the 15th President of Nigeria. For many Nigerians, it was a moment of hope: that a man known for incorruptibility might restore dignity to public service.

His presidency, however, was a mixed legacy. On one hand, he expanded Nigeria’s infrastructure, invested in agriculture, and initiated bold social investment programs. On the other hand, his administration was heavily criticized for economic stagnation, rising insecurity, and allegations of ethnic favoritism. The anti-corruption crusader was accused of shielding allies while prosecuting opponents, and the Boko Haram insurgency, though diminished in rhetoric, remained lethal in reality.

But beyond policy or politics, Buhari’s prolonged absences from Nigeria due to ill health, often spent in London clinics, became emblematic of a larger issue—an indictment not just of the man, but of the system he led.

And so we return to Pillay’s haunting question: Why do African presidents die in foreign hospitals? Is it not a loud admission that the hospitals they governed into existence are not good enough for them? That the public health systems they managed—or neglected—are fit only for the citizens, not for the commanders-in-chief?

When a president chooses to die in London, Paris, Berlin, or Dubai, it is more than a personal choice. It is a political statement, however unintended. It says something about the failure to invest in local excellence. It exposes the disconnect between the leadership class and the people. And it reopens old wounds of colonial psychology—that somehow, safety, healing, and even death must be outsourced to the former imperial centers.

Buhari was not the first. Before him, President Umaru Musa Yar’Adua also died abroad. Zimbabwe’s Robert Mugabe breathed his last in a Singaporean hospital. Ethiopia’s Meles Zenawi died in Belgium. The list is long and telling.

Buhari’s death, therefore, is not just the end of a life. It is a mirror held up to the face of African leadership—a mirror that asks: what legacy do you leave when your own nation cannot cradle you in your final hour?

His life was one of discipline, duty, and controversy. His death abroad should not only provoke mourning but compel a moment of reckoning. The greatest tribute any leader can offer their people is not only in how they live—but in preparing their nations to care for every life, from the farmer in Bauchi to the president in Aso Rock.

If Buhari’s journey is to mean something beyond headlines, perhaps it is in prompting the question no one in power likes to answer: what kind of country are you building if it cannot even keep you alive.

Rose Ssali is a Pan African Development Analyst, with expertise in International Law & Diplomacy. She is also Book Review Editor of the International Journal of the Institute for African Renaissance Studies (UNISA)