By John Akubo
In a political landscape increasingly defined by self-interest, shifting loyalties, and ideological fatigue, Alhaji Sule Lamido remains a rare constant in Nigeria’s turbulent democratic journey—a man who has never been afraid to walk the road less traveled, even when that road led through personal pain, political exile, and principled loneliness.
In Being True to Myself, Lamido offers more than a memoir; he presents a political creed grounded in patriotism, equity, and people-first governance
It is coming as a timely and powerful meditation on what it means to serve with conscience.
It is not just a personal autobiography; it is a national mirror—revealing, sobering, and defiantly hopeful.
Formally launching on 13th May 2025 at the NAF Conference Centre, Abuja, Being True to Myself has already stirred national interest for its candour and depth.
With a foreword by President Olusegun Obasanjo, and a high-powered guest list including General Abdulsalami Abubakar as Chairman and Dr. Iyorchia Ayu as the book reviewer, the event signals more than a literary milestone—it is a reaffirmation of Lamido’s enduring relevance to Nigeria’s democratic story.
In the pages of Being True to Myself, Lamido chronicles a life spent walking the tightrope between power and principle. From his humble beginnings in Bamaina, where he remains simply “Sule,” to the corridors of national leadership, the former governor of Jigawa State and founding PDP stalwart shares a searingly honest account of the triumphs and betrayals that have shaped his journey.
He recounts his early political awakening in the PRP, his principled resistance during the June 12 crisis, and the harrowing consequences of confronting military dictatorship—from arrest to exile.
Being True to Myself offers a masterclass in political memory: his encounters with General Babangida and his admiration for Tony Anenih
From the ashes of civil war to the fragile optimism of the Fourth Republic, Lamido and his contemporaries sought to revive the vision of Nigeria’s founding fathers: unity, security, and prosperity. For him, zoning—though misunderstood and abused by opportunists—was never a tool for division but a balm of reconciliation, meant to restore hope in a wounded federation. “Zoning was our attempt to be inclusive,” he wrote, “giving people hope and confidence in the Nigerian project.”
His deep commitment to the People’s Democratic Party (PDP), which he helped to found, reflects a democrat’s reverence for institutions—even when they fall short. While others tore party cards in anger or fled from internal challenges, Lamido stayed, choosing principle over pettiness. “I am not angry,” he said, “but if I react in anger it may cause some problem for our party.”
The former Jigawa governor’s philosophy of leadership is strikingly people-oriented. He governed with an eye on the most vulnerable—the blind, the lepers, the mentally ill—and insisted that no one in society should fall below a humane standard. 
His budgeting was frugal, accountable, and deeply respectful of future administrations: “I did not want to incur any expenditure for him in advance and, thus, curtail his own programmes.” That, in a nation grappling with generational debt and political waste, is a rare ethic.
Lamido’s refusal to reduce herder-farmer clashes to ethnic rivalry shows a commitment to rational policy over populist rhetoric. “In America, there are farmers and rangers… neither is Fulani or Hausa,” he reminded us, challenging dangerous narratives that pit brothers against each other.
What stands out most is his unyielding belief in Nigeria—even when Nigeria, at times, failed to believe in him. Accused, humiliated, jailed alongside his children, and labeled “anti-Islam” or “anti-North,” Lamido endured with his dignity intact. He could have chosen bitterness; instead, he chose service.
“I believe in Nigeria,” he writes in conclusion. “I love Nigeria and cherish what Nigeria has done for me… I feel deep gratitude to God… I have no regrets whatsoever.”
This is the story of a true democrat—not because he was perfect, but because he dared to remain principled in an age of pragmatism, and faithful in a time of disillusionment. In the concluding chapters of his political memoir, Being True to Myself, Sule Lamido distills decades of experience, pain, and patriotism into a profound meditation on the Nigerian condition—its promise, its perils, and the path to redemption. What emerges is a deeply personal and politically resonant call to conscience for a nation still grappling with unity, leadership, and social justice. Lamido revisited 1999 not as a year of political transition alone, but as a moment of introspection.
“We had to really sit down and reflect on what we went through from independence, the civil war and afterwards,” he writes. For him, zoning was not merely political arithmetic—it was an attempt at moral inclusion, giving all regions a stake in the Nigerian project. Sadly, that ideal has often been hijacked by those who “do not understand the spirit behind the idea.”
He does not shy away from personal wounds: his public humiliation, his relationship with former President Goodluck Jonathan, and the political persecution that saw him docked alongside his own children. Still, Lamido maintains restraint: “I will not do anything that will pull [the PDP] down.” Despite bitter experiences, he exudes a stoic loyalty to party and country.
In office, Lamido envisioned government as service. “We were perpetually on our toes trying to catch up with public demands,” he recounts. His administration in Jigawa, he insists, set a social benchmark beneath which no one should sink—especially the vulnerable and disabled. “Failure was not an option,” he declared, revealing the rigor and compassion that shaped his policies.
He offered a sober critique of modern leadership: a disconnect from the people, a failure to serve, and a tendency to weaponize poverty, religion, and ethnicity. “A person who is hungry has no focus… Poverty, illiteracy, ethnicity, religion are all used to manipulate our people.”
Lamido is frank about a deep flaw in Nigerian governance: the refusal of successors to continue beneficial projects out of political pettiness. “No matter how beneficial to the people a project conceived by another leader is, they may not want to sustain it.” He contrasts this with his own refusal to borrow or leave liabilities, choosing instead to govern strictly within available resources—ensuring no burden for his successor.
There is humility and gratitude in his closing tone: “Coming from a village, I feel deep gratitude to God… I have no regrets whatsoever in life.” He celebrates his journey as a gift and expresses anguish at the betrayal of Nigeria by its elites. Yet, his faith in the country is unwavering: “I believe in Nigeria. I love Nigeria… We pray that Allah… will guide us all, and enable us to plan well for our nation, ourselves and the generations to come.”
In a political culture where memoirs are often vanity projects or score-settling narratives, Being True to Myself stands out. Lamido offers neither perfection nor self-pity, but reflection. His vision of leadership is not one of power, but of service and moral duty. Nigeria, he insists, is worth believing in—but only if we each take responsibility for building the nation we desire.
Nigeria may be broken, but Lamido’s voice reminds us: it is not beyond repair.
