By Emmanuel Adegbite
There are moments in politics when history refuses to remain history. It waits quietly in an archive, gathers dust for years, and then, without warning, finds its way back into the public conversation. The old documents are suddenly alive again; the names that once appeared on legal papers become headlines; and politicians who would rather discuss the future are forced to answer questions about the past. For President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, one of those moments has arrived once again in the United States, where a long-running Freedom of Information Act litigation over historical records relating to him has entered another significant phase. The irony is difficult to miss. A president who has built much of his political identity around the language of progress, reform, transformation and renewal is now dealing with the stubborn return of an old American record that refuses to disappear.
Before the political theatrics begin, however, the facts deserve to be placed carefully on the table. Tinubu has not been newly charged by the United States with drug trafficking. There is no new American criminal indictment against him establishing that he trafficked narcotics. The current proceedings are not a criminal prosecution. They concern the attempted release of historical government records under the U.S. Freedom of Information Act. American transparency activist Aaron Greenspan has been seeking records from U.S. agencies, including the FBI and DEA, concerning investigations involving Tinubu during the early 1990s. His requests include the FBI’s file on Tinubu and FBI Form 302 interview records relating to the 1992β1993 period. The litigation, identified as Greenspan v. Executive Office for U.S. Attorneys et al., is pending before the United States District Court for the District of Columbia.
That distinction matters because Nigerian political discourse has a terrible habit of turning allegations into convictions and court proceedings into verdicts. The fact that an American activist is asking for investigative records does not establish that everything contained in those records is true. The fact that an American government agency possesses investigative records does not automatically establish criminal guilt. And the fact that Tinubu is opposing their disclosure does not, by itself, prove that the records contain evidence of wrongdoing. A serious newspaper column must resist the temptation to make those leaps. The truth does not need exaggeration to be interesting.
But the reverse is equally important. The existence of a legal distinction between an allegation and a conviction does not mean the underlying history should be erased. There is a documented 1993 U.S. civil forfeiture proceeding involving funds associated with accounts in Tinubu’s name. The proceedings resulted in the forfeiture of approximately $460,000. Court documents described the funds in connection with narcotics trafficking and money laundering statutes. The case was a forfeiture proceeding rather than a criminal conviction of Tinubu for drug trafficking, and that distinction has been repeatedly emphasized in political and legal arguments surrounding the matter.
This is where the Nigerian political conversation usually becomes intellectually lazy. One side declares that Tinubu was “convicted of drug trafficking,” which is not an accurate description of the legal record. The other side responds as though there was never a U.S. legal proceeding involving the forfeiture of the money, which is equally indefensible. Between those two distortions lies the rather less exciting truth: there was a 1993 American forfeiture proceeding involving funds associated with Tinubu, the money was forfeited, Tinubu has denied wrongdoing, and there was no criminal conviction establishing that he personally trafficked drugs. That is the factual terrain upon which any responsible discussion must stand.
The present FOIA case matters because it potentially takes the conversation beyond the fragments of the historical record already available to the public. Greenspan is not asking Nigerians to believe a WhatsApp message or an opposition politician’s interpretation of history. He is pursuing access to government records. The records being sought include investigative material from American law-enforcement agencies and interview records from the period in question. In other words, the dispute is partly about who gets to see the documentary trail left behind by American investigators more than three decades ago.
And now President Tinubu has entered the American courtroom to oppose the release of those records.
His legal team argues that the materials should remain withheld or appropriately redacted, relying in part on privacy protections under U.S. law. That is not an absurd legal argument. The American Freedom of Information Act does not mean every government document automatically becomes public simply because someone requests it. U.S. law contains exemptions designed to protect personal privacy, confidential sources, law-enforcement information, investigative techniques and other legitimate interests. The FBI itself has argued that some withheld information falls within FOIA exemptions and has sought permission to provide portions of its justification to the judge privately, under seal and in camera. The Bureau has even argued that disclosure of some information could reasonably be expected to endanger the life or physical safety of an individual.
That is a serious legal issue, and it should be treated as one.
Yet politics is rarely satisfied with the narrow language of law.
For Nigerians watching from home, the immediate question is simpler and much more uncomfortable: why should the public not want to know what those records contain?
The question is not equivalent to saying that the records prove criminality. They may not. They may contain information that ultimately exonerates Tinubu. They may contain old investigative leads that went nowhere. They may contain allegations that investigators could not substantiate. They may contain information about third parties whose privacy deserves protection. They may contain law-enforcement material that American law legitimately shields from public disclosure. They may contain nothing particularly explosive at all.
That is precisely why the records should be approached as records rather than rumours.
There is something profoundly revealing about the politics of secrecy in a democracy. The longer a public controversy survives without the complete documentary record being available, the more room there is for conspiracy, propaganda and political mythology. Every missing document becomes evidence to somebody. Every sealed page becomes an invitation to speculation. Every redaction becomes a blank screen onto which political enemies project their worst assumptions. Transparency, when legally possible, is therefore not merely a weapon against government; it is also a weapon against misinformation.
If Tinubu is confident that the historical material does not establish criminal wrongdoing, one can understand why his supporters might prefer disclosure that settles the matter. But the President is not simply a private individual anymore. He is the head of state of a country whose citizens have a legitimate interest in questions surrounding the credibility of their leadership. The presidency does not erase personal rights, but public office inevitably increases the public interest in a leader’s history.
This is where the language of “progressive leadership” becomes particularly interesting.
Tinubu’s political brand has long been associated with transformation. His supporters describe him as a political strategist, reformer and architect of a new Nigeria. His administration has presented its economic reforms as necessary acts of transformation, however painful those reforms have been. The administration repeatedly asks Nigerians to believe that the old ways must give way to a new political and economic order.
Fair enough.
But progress has an awkward relationship with secrecy.
A government cannot credibly demand that citizens embrace transparency, accountability and institutional reform while treating transparency itself as an inconvenience whenever it becomes politically uncomfortable. The principle must be larger than the politician.
And perhaps that is the uncomfortable lesson of this American litigation.
The President may have a legitimate legal right to argue that certain records should remain private. The FBI may have legitimate reasons for withholding sensitive material. American law may ultimately support the government’s position. The court may agree that some or all of the records should remain sealed or redacted. None of those possibilities should be dismissed.
But the public is equally entitled to ask why.
This is not an unreasonable demand. It is the basic instinct of democratic accountability.
The irony becomes almost irresistible when one considers the political vocabulary surrounding the current administration. Nigeria is being promised renewal. We hear constantly about the future, about investment, about reforms, about a new Nigeria capable of competing globally. Yet one of the most persistent controversies surrounding the country’s president keeps sending everyone backwardβto Chicago, to the early 1990s, to old bank accounts, old investigations and old American court files.
Perhaps history has poor timing.
Or perhaps politicians simply underestimate its patience.
Tinubu’s supporters have understandably defended him against what they regard as politically motivated attacks. The President has denied wrongdoing. His political allies have previously argued that the forfeiture did not amount to a criminal conviction and that the circumstances surrounding the 1993 proceeding have been distorted for political purposes. Those arguments deserve to be heard. Indeed, any serious account of this controversy must include them.
But defending a politician does not require pretending that inconvenient documents do not exist.
That is one of the greatest failures of political discourse in Nigeria. We have turned political loyalty into a form of selective blindness. When our preferred politician is accused, we demand evidence. When the opposing politician is accused, the allegation becomes established fact before the first document is produced. We condemn propaganda when it hurts our candidate and celebrate it when it hurts somebody else’s.
That is not democracy.
That is football.
And the Nigerian political class has already spent far too many years behaving as though the presidency were merely another league table.
The responsible position is therefore neither “Tinubu is a drug trafficker” nor “there was never any drug-related case.” Both statements oversimplify the documentary record. The responsible position is that the United States had a 1993 forfeiture proceeding involving funds associated with Tinubu; approximately $460,000 was forfeited; the proceeding involved allegations concerning narcotics proceeds and money laundering; Tinubu was not convicted in a criminal trial for drug trafficking; and contemporary litigation is seeking access to additional U.S. government records relating to investigations from that period.
Everything else should be tested against those facts.
The current development becomes even more intriguing because the American government itself has acknowledged that some records exist but is resisting their complete public disclosure. The FBI has invoked several FOIA exemptions, including provisions relating to personal privacy, confidential sources, law-enforcement techniques and potential threats to life or physical safety. The agency has asked the court to allow certain explanations to be submitted privately rather than placed on the public docket.
That does not mean the hidden records contain a smoking gun.
But neither does it mean they contain nothing.
It simply means there are records whose disclosure is being contested.
And that distinction, though less exciting than the sensational headlines, is the heart of the story.
The court will eventually have to determine what can legally be released and what must remain protected. That is precisely what courts are supposed to do. The judgeβnot Nigerian social media, not Tinubu’s political opponents, not his supporters, and certainly not columnistsβmust determine the legal question.
But journalism has another responsibility.
It must ask why the matter matters.
And it matters because public confidence is not built exclusively by speeches.
A president’s credibility is not sustained merely by describing himself as a reformer. It is strengthened when institutions, records and facts can withstand scrutiny. The strongest defence against an allegation is not always another allegation. Sometimes it is documentation.
If the records ultimately reveal nothing that materially changes what is already known, then let them be examined and let the controversy lose its oxygen. If they contain information that is legally protected, explain why. If legitimate privacy interests are involved, protect them. If confidential sources need protection, protect them. If releasing particular details would genuinely endanger people or compromise law-enforcement methods, the court should take that seriously.
But where the public interest permits disclosure, secrecy becomes increasingly difficult to defend politically.
Especially for a government that has made “progress” its favourite political noun.
There is another uncomfortable dimension to this saga. The controversy has survived across administrations, elections and political generations. It was relevant during the 2023 presidential contest, resurfaced in litigation surrounding Tinubu’s eligibility, and has now returned through an American FOIA case years later. The persistence of the controversy suggests that simply dismissing every new development as opposition propaganda is unlikely to make it disappear.
Political controversies do not always survive because they are true.
Sometimes they survive because they are unresolved.
And unresolved questions have a remarkable ability to outlive political campaigns.
This is why Tinubu’s current legal strategy deserves scrutiny without premature condemnation. He has the right to defend his privacy and to challenge the release of records he believes should remain protected. That right should not be questioned merely because the political consequences are uncomfortable. But exercising a legal right does not make the underlying controversy illegitimate. A person can have a lawful right to resist disclosure and still face perfectly legitimate public questions about why the disclosure is being resisted.
Both propositions can coexist.
That is the maturity political journalism requires.
The temptation in Nigeria will be to turn the latest American court development into another tribal, partisan or electoral battlefield. Supporters will say the opposition is desperate. Opponents will say the President is hiding something. Social-media commentators will produce dramatic headlines declaring that America has “finally exposed” Tinubu. Government loyalists will respond that the President has been “cleared” even when the court has done nothing of the sort.
And everybody will be wrong in precisely the way they prefer.
The court has not convicted Tinubu of drug trafficking.
Nor has it necessarily vindicated every claim made by his defenders.
The legal question before the court concerns access to records.
The political question before Nigerians concerns trust.
Those are related, but they are not identical.
The President’s defenders should therefore stop treating every request for documentary scrutiny as an attack on Nigeria. Nigeria is bigger than Tinubu. The reputation of the Nigerian presidency should not depend upon Nigerians refusing to ask questions. If the records are harmless, transparency should make the President’s position stronger. If some records require legitimate protection, the court can determine the appropriate redactions. If there is information that genuinely changes the historical understanding of the matter, Nigerians deserve to confront it honestly.
A confident democracy should be capable of surviving documents.
Indeed, perhaps the most progressive thing a “progressive leader” can do is allow the historical record to be examined without turning every question into a political emergency.
Because progress is not merely about building roads, reforming taxes or attracting investment. It is also about building institutions in which facts are stronger than personalities.
And that brings us to the great irony.
For years, Nigerians have been told to look forward.
The government wants us to look beyond yesterday’s Nigeria.
Beyond corruption.
Beyond impunity.
Beyond institutional weakness.
Beyond the old politics.
Beyond the old ways.
Yet somehow, every few years, the same old American file walks back into the room.
Maybe the file is innocent.
Maybe it is damaging.
Maybe it contains nothing new.
Maybe it contains something important.
Nobody should decide that before the evidence is properly examined.
But if the administration genuinely believes in the progressive future it so frequently advertises, it should understand that the past cannot simply be declared irrelevant because it has become inconvenient.
A nation cannot build a credible future by selectively editing its history.
Tinubu has every right to defend himself in court. Greenspan has every right to pursue lawful access to records. The U.S. government has every right to invoke legitimate statutory exemptions. The court has the responsibility to determine what the law permits.
And Nigerians have the right to ask questions.
Not because a court has convicted their President.
Not because an opposition politician says he is guilty.
Not because social media has already reached a verdict.
But because public office carries a burden that private life does not: the burden of scrutiny.
If the records are eventually released and they clear Tinubu of whatever additional suspicion has accumulated around this controversy, the responsible thing will be to say so. If they add important facts, those facts should be investigated. If they remain sealed for legally defensible reasons, then the public must live with that limitation while continuing to distinguish what is known from what is merely alleged.
That is how serious journalism works.
That is how democratic accountability works.
And that, perhaps, is the real test of the much-advertised progressive leadership.
Not whether the leader can silence his critics.
Not whether his supporters can drown out his opponents.
Not whether another political slogan can be invented.
But whether the truth, whatever it turns out to be, can be allowed to stand without fear.
For now, the American courtroom remains the unlikely stage on which a very Nigerian question is being asked:
What exactly is in the file?
And until the answer is known, the most honest conclusion is neither condemnation nor absolution.
It is simply this:
Open the records where the law permits. Protect what the law requires. Examine the evidence. Then let history and not political loyalty, deliver the verdict.
After all, for a government that calls itself progressive, transparency should not be treated as an enemy at the gate.
It should be the road leading forward.
