In the world of public commentary, few names have stirred the kind of polarized passions that Farooq Kperogi has. His searing critiques of former President Muhammadu Buhari over the years have earned him admiration from some and accusations of deep-seated personal animosity from others. But his recent foray into the personal affairs of the late President’s widow, Aisha Buhari, marks a troubling descent from political commentary to injudicious tabloid-style speculation.
On July 16, Kperogi published a Facebook post titled “Aisha Buhari, Divorce, and Forgiveness Claim,” in which he suggested that the former First Lady had divorced her husband before his death and later forgave him posthumously. The post—though promptly viral—was met with widespread backlash, not least because of its timing, surfacing barely weeks after the President’s death, when his widow was still mourning.
Realizing the storm he had stirred, Kperogi issued a public apology a few days later. While his tone was appropriately remorseful, the apology—when examined closely—reveals more of a reluctant retreat than a full retraction.
“My source, whose integrity is unimpeachable, insists the information is accurate... But going public with the information was an error on my part,” he wrote. “I shouldn’t have shared it publicly. Period.”
In essence, Kperogi regrets sharing the information, not necessarily the claim itself. He neither retracted the allegation nor admitted it was false. Instead, he deferred to Aisha Buhari’s own version of events, stating that “Mrs. Buhari herself has the ultimate authority and right to define the status of her marriage… Her truth should be respected as supreme.”
While this rhetorical flourish may seem deferential, it is also evasive. Kperogi’s apology appears carefully couched to protect his claim, while shifting blame to his lapse in editorial judgment.
The apology raises serious questions about journalistic ethics. Responsible journalism is guided by principles such as truth, fairness, minimizing harm, and accountability. Even if his claim had some factual grounding, the ethical question remains: Was it necessary? Was it responsible? Was it decent?
The answer is an emphatic no.
Publishing an unconfirmed and emotionally sensitive claim about a widow’s relationship with her deceased husband—especially one that paints their final years in a negative light—grossly violates the ethical principle of humanity. It’s a lapse not just in judgment, but in decency.
Moreover, it doesn’t appear that Kperogi made any attempt to verify the story with Aisha Buhari or her representatives before publishing. That’s a cardinal sin in journalism: failing to balance a claim with the affected party’s right of reply.
In his apology, he concedes that “not every well-sourced information is for public consumption.” But the damage had already been done, and no amount of well-phrased regret can reverse the trauma of public ridicule or the hurt caused to a grieving widow.
In the wake of the apology, some of Kperogi’s defenders have attempted to deflect blame by arguing that “neither Aisha Buhari nor her aides denied the claim.” A few even went as far as saying that those who insist the claim is false should “provide proof that she wasn’t divorced.”
This logic turns both reason and law on their heads.
In any legal or journalistic framework, the burden of proof lies with the claimant—not the subject. It is not Aisha Buhari’s duty to prove she wasn’t divorced; it is Kperogi’s duty to substantiate the claim with verifiable evidence. Anything short of that amounts to character assassination veiled as commentary.
Defamation laws in Nigeria protect individuals—especially private citizens—from the publication of false, injurious claims. Even if a statement is believed to be true, if it cannot be substantiated and causes reputational harm, it may be legally actionable.
While Kperogi may have narrowly avoided legal consequences, his actions reside in the twilight zone of potential libel and reckless disregard for personal privacy.
From the standpoint of moral decency—particularly within the Nigerian socio-cultural context—the post was profoundly insensitive. There is a time and place for scrutiny, but delving into the private, unverified marital status of a woman who had just buried her husband was neither timely nor respectful.
Islamic ethics, too, offer a scathing indictment of such behavior. The Qur’an warns against tajassus—spying or probing into people’s private matters—and against ghibah (backbiting), which includes even sharing factual information that a person would dislike being revealed. The Prophet Muhammad (SAW) further advised that the dead should not be slandered, for they have gone to meet their Lord.
In light of this, Kperogi’s act not only breached professional ethics but also violated the moral codes of the very faith he professes.
Kperogi’s critics argue that this incident is not isolated, but part of a broader pattern of obsessive contempt for Buhari and his family. Over the years, his commentaries have relentlessly portrayed the former president in the worst possible light—whether on appointments, policies, or personal character. Rarely, if ever, does Kperogi acknowledge even a modicum of good in Buhari’s eight-year presidency.
This tendency toward selective outrage and consistent negativity betrays a lack of objectivity, reducing legitimate criticism to what appears as vendetta journalism.
By crossing the line into personal, unverified gossip, he risks confirming the perception that he sees nothing good in Buhari—not even the sanctity of his death or the grief of his widow.
Kperogi’s apology, though commendable in tone, falls short in substance. It stops at regret without full accountability. It expresses sorrow without retracting the injury. And it reflects a personal bias so deep that it clouded his ethical compass.
In the end, this episode should serve as a sobering lesson—not just for Kperogi, but for every journalist and commentator: Truth without compassion becomes cruelty; commentary without ethics becomes defamation.
Aisha Buhari deserved better. And so did the standards of responsible journalism.
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