Yesterday, someone jokingly called me with a strangely profound question: “Which of Buhari’s souls should I pray for — the one who allegedly died in 2017 or the one who just died in London?”
What sounded like banter quickly stirred in me a deeper reflection. For years, a bizarre and persistent narrative has gripped many Nigerians: that the real President Muhammadu Buhari died in 2017 and was replaced by an impostor — Jubril from Sudan. This theory, once considered fringe, gained surprising traction in public discourse. It has been championed most notably by Nnamdi Kanu, leader of the proscribed IPOB movement, and echoed in hushed tones and memes across Nigeria’s digital and political spaces.
But how did such an extraordinary claim survive, even thrive?
There were incidents that undeniably added fuel to the fire. In 2017, Joyce Rose, a British MP and former soldier, posted a condolence message on Twitter (now X) mourning Buhari’s passing — only to delete it shortly after. Screenshots of the tweet circulated widely, igniting suspicions.
Around the same time, Buhari’s prolonged medical absence created a vacuum that was filled with anxiety, rumor, and intrigue. Upon his return, whispers grew louder: his fingerprints, some claimed, no longer unlocked the doors to his own office. Was it a biometric failure due to long disuse — or proof that the man who returned wasn’t the man who left?
Then came the strangeness in his personal relationships. Aisha Buhari, the First Lady, made headlines when she publicly stated, “This is not the man I married.” That haunting statement, paired with Buhari’s infamous “My wife belongs to the kitchen and the other room” retort, sent shockwaves through the nation and deepened doubts about his identity. Were they simply signs of marital strain — or subtle warnings of a buried truth?
Even the messy power plays within the presidency added to the drama. Aisha Buhari’s frequent clashes with the so-called “cabal” — Garba Shehu, the Chief of Staff, and the Fulani kitchen cabinet — played out in the public eye like a soap opera. Each scandal was seized upon as further evidence of a cover-up.
The “Jubril from Sudan” narrative, no matter how implausible, became etched into public consciousness.
When Abba Shehu, a presidential insider, launched his book recently, he dismissed the story outright. He attributed the office door fiasco to rats damaging the equipment during Buhari’s long absence — a weak explanation that many saw as a diversion from the truth of Buhari’s frail health. Ironically, Buhari’s reported death in a London hospital just days later has been used by conspiracy believers as a final vindication.
It’s important to acknowledge that history has known a few cases of leaders allegedly using doubles. Stalin and Saddam Hussein were rumored to have deployed body doubles for security reasons. Even Adolf Hitler was believed by some to have used lookalikes to mislead enemies. Political deception is not new, and espionage has long been fertile ground for conspiracy.
But let’s come back to the Nigerian context.
If Buhari truly died in 2017, and Jubril indeed ruled Nigeria in his place, how did his children remain at ease, vacationing and laughing with their supposed impostor father? Did Jubril also act as a husband to Aisha? Could such an elaborate fraud survive the country’s raucous, cutthroat political opposition, with no leak or challenge? It’s hard to imagine Nigeria’s restless and power-hungry opposition parties staying silent if such a scandal could bring down a presidency.
The truth? The theory is most likely false. But its persistence is not without meaning.
This myth is a mirror reflecting the fractured nature of Nigeria’s political landscape — a land where distrust is deep, transparency is rare, and citizens are conditioned to doubt their leaders. The “Buhari double” story is not just about one man; it’s a parable of Nigeria’s struggle with leadership failure, secrecy, and the gaping disconnect between the government and the governed.
Ultimately, whether Buhari ruled or Jubril did is less important than why such a story could be believed in the first place.
It tells us, painfully, that Nigerians are yearning for truth, trust, and leaders who are real — not just in flesh, but in integrity.
Fr Augustine Ikenna Anwuchie is a Catholic priest from Nigeria. He is a dedicated missionary, insightful social commentator, passionate youth coach, editor, writer, and an ardent enthusiast of ecclesiastical affairs.
