Olu Allen
Betrayal is rarely impulsive. It is a long intention that finally finds courage.
The Psalmist understood this with chilling precision. In Psalm 55, the pain is not caused by an enemy shouting insults from a distance; it comes from the familiar voice, the shared bread, the trusted companion. An enemy can be anticipated.
A brother is allowed to be close. That is where the dagger finds its mark, quietly, deeply, without resistance.
There is a particular cruelty to betrayal because it violates an unspoken contract. We do not merely trust people; we invest in them. We grant access, to our plans, our weaknesses, and our future.
When the wound comes from that direction, the pain is not only emotional; it is disorienting. It forces a re-examination of people, loyalty, and even one’s own judgment.
Pain itself is not always evil. If harm comes from the devil, it is expected; there is clarity in that. But when the wound comes from the one you believed was assigned to guard you, confusion sets in. Yet even that pain carries information. It strips away illusions and exposes myths we mistook for truth.
History is unflinching on this matter.
Major Kaduna Nzeogwu was raised under the political and moral shadow of Sir Ahmadu Bello. Patronage, proximity, protection — yet when power and ideology called, blood ties dissolved. Familiarity did not restrain ambition; it sharpened it.
Olusola Saraki survived betrayals from allies, protégés, and beneficiaries, only to confront the most symbolic rupture within his own bloodline. That story unsettles because it violates our last refuge, the belief that some relationships are immune. They are not.
Betrayal is rarely about hatred. It is about interest.
Human beings are not wired for loyalty; they are wired for survival, advancement, and self-justification.
Loyalty exists, but it is conditional and often temporary. Power accelerates this truth. The higher the stakes, the thinner the moral restraints.
Politics, stripped of romance, is the disciplined pursuit of self-interest. Alliances are tools. Gratitude expires. Memory fades. Those shocked by betrayal are often not surprised that it happened, but that it happened to them.
We tell ourselves comforting myths:
“He wouldn’t do that to me.”
“After all I’ve done?”
“We’ve come too far.”
These myths collapse under pressure. Friendship, mentorship, kinship — none of them cancel ambition. They merely delay its expression.
This is why betrayal so often comes from those we least expect. Proximity creates opportunity, and opportunity awakens dormant desires. The closer someone is to power through you, the more clearly they can imagine life without you.
Which brings us to Kano.
Rabiu Musa Kwankwaso did not merely support Abba Kabir Yusuf; he made him politically legible. He offered structure, identity, a movement, and the emotional weight of a political family.
Kwankwasiyya was not just a platform; it was a shelter, a signal. Abba was sold to the electorate not as an isolated figure, but as the continuation of a vision.
That is what makes this rupture painful. It was not ideological persecution. It was not sudden repression. It was the quiet, deliberate actions, the sidelining of loyalists, the public distancing from the very structure that birthed him, that revealed the moment when interest outweighed memory.
It was when power no longer needed its ladder, when mentorship began to feel like a constraint, and when influence was reinterpreted as interference.
Here is the uncomfortable truth many avoid: no godfather is betrayed by enemies; he is betrayed by success.
Power matures people faster than loyalty can keep up. Once a man controls the machinery of the state, gratitude becomes optional. The hand that lifted him starts to look like a shadow he must escape.
Kwankwaso’s experience is not unique, but it is instructive.
Helping someone into power does not bind them to you; it merely introduces them to a higher version of themselves, one that may no longer include you.
Does this mean we should stop trusting? Stop helping?
No. That would be fear masquerading as wisdom.
The real lesson is sterner: never confuse influence with ownership, and never mistake proximity for loyalty. Trust, but structure it. Help, but without illusion. Understand that people walk with you only as long as your path aligns with their destination.
When they leave, history will debate motives, justify ambition, and normalize the act. But the wound will remain where it always does, not in politics, not in strategy, but in the quiet realization that the hand you trained to carry the torch chose to walk away with it.
That is not cynicism.
That is clarity.
Allen writes from Kano. He writes on public affairs and promotes good governance. He can be reached via oluallen1904@gmail.com.
