How I survived Villa under Buhari despite my history with Atiku— Garba Shehu

In this interview on Trust TV’s 30 Minutes, former presidential spokesman Garba Shehu reflects on his time in the corridors of power—from surviving Villa politics with an ‘Atiku tag’ to navigating media strategy under President Muhammadu Buhari. He speaks on loyalty, leadership, and the blurred lines between journalism and public relations.   You’ve just written […]

In this interview on Trust TV’s 30 Minutes, former presidential spokesman Garba Shehu reflects on his time in the corridors of power—from surviving Villa politics with an ‘Atiku tag’ to navigating media strategy under President Muhammadu Buhari. He speaks on loyalty, leadership, and the blurred lines between journalism and public relations.

 

You’ve just written and published a book, which is more or less about your time as spokesman for President Buhari. What prompted you to write it?

The book goes a bit further back than the Buhari era. I was involved in presidential communications as early as 2003, during President Olusegun Obasanjo’s second term. I was appointed as spokesperson to then Vice President Atiku Abubakar. The book reflects on everything we went through in that role.

I recall your official stint in that job lasted barely a year?

Six months. We had just returned from Jos, where we were with the Vice President at the National Institute. Then someone from NTA headquarters called me and said, “We’re going to announce your resignation.” I replied, “Have I resigned?” He said, “Yes. Maybe somebody has resigned on your behalf. What we have is a statement from the Villa saying the President has accepted your resignation.” I said, “So be it.” After all, my appointment was announced on radio and television. So, being sacked the same way didn’t bother me much.

Even before then, there’s a long narrative about your journalistic journey. How do you now see yourself—journalist, PR man, spin doctor, or all three?

I’d say public communication today is what they now call multimedia communication. The expectation is that one person should possess all the communication skills—writing, reporting, editing, and even technical skills. These days, your phone is good enough to cover news. In your own case, you started at NTA, so you’d understand this. You must be able to tell a story, record it, and transmit it. We were doing all of that.

But which of those roles do you feel you gravitate toward more—spin doctor or journalist?

I don’t know why you keep using the word “spin.” It tends to have a derogatory connotation—as if the job is about twisting facts.

Or about creating a favourable impression for whoever you work for?

Exactly. That’s the principle. Forget what journalism institutes or associations may say. Once you’re a PR person for anyone—a governor, a chairman, or a president—you’re supposed to be on that person’s side. And you must present the truth from their point of view.

That reminds me of Alastair Campbell, Tony Blair’s spokesman—the one they famously called a spin doctor.

Yes, and he even wrote a whole book about spin control. I remember seeing him at a conference where he said, “When I was with the BBC, truth was my boss. But when I moved to 10 Downing Street, Tony Blair was my boss.” The ground reality is this: you must never side with public opinion against your boss.

Even when public opinion is right?

That’s exactly the point. I’m not saying it’s right or wrong—morally or otherwise—but the operational reality of PR work is that you never side with public opinion against your principal. If you don’t think you can stand with him, wherever he is, then get out of the kitchen. Simple.

Does that suggest a total divorce between PR and real journalism?

Unfortunately, yes. There used to be a very clear line. We read in books—though we didn’t always see it in practice—that in the early days, the advert department and newsroom were physically separated by a wall to avoid interference. But today, news and advertorials flow into each other. Professional boundaries have been eroded.

Does that give PR practitioners an edge? I mean, knowing how the newsroom works helps in pressing the right buttons.

I’m not here to reveal any tricks. But regardless of the situation, the true asset of a PR person lies in how many journalists you can reach—how well you’re networked.

In your case, people often said you were approachable and reachable—unlike many PR people.

Of course. These are assets you build over time. From my early days in journalism, I was active in NUJ politics. I even ran for office, and although I didn’t win, the crisis in the Kano NUJ Council led to my being invited to serve as interim chairman for over a year. From there, I moved into the Guild of Editors.

You eventually became president of the Guild?

Yes, one office after another, until I became president of the Guild of Editors. All along, you’re building goodwill, forging relationships, and getting to know people across the industry.

Let me also add that while I was at Triumph newspaper in Kano, Bayero University’s Department of Mass Communication gave me an opportunity to teach journalism. It was entirely pro bono—I did it as a public service. I was learning, but I was also impacting students who later became journalists themselves.

So later, when I went into PR and needed support—maybe from one media house or another—I saw the rewards. That saying about a teacher’s reward being in heaven? I’ve seen mine here on earth. I’d walk into a newsroom and before I could even ask, someone would emerge saying, “You taught me in BUK.” And the support they offered was something no amount of influence or money could buy.

All of these experiences came together and turned out to be incredibly valuable.

What would you say is the highlight of your book? I hesitate to say it, but it seems like you’re treading carefully in some parts—just as in our earlier conversation—trying to suggest all is well between the Buhari and Tinubu camps within the APC. So, what’s the most important takeaway from the book for you?

Well, there are two key points rather than one. First, I see the book as a learning tool. It’s not enough to go through newsroom crises, editorial struggles, political pressure, and journalistic trials without sharing how to navigate those experiences. The book addresses how to manage a newsroom, how to respond to political pressure as an editor, how to protect your sources, how to cultivate and maintain relationships, and how to preserve the confidence of those who give you stories.

As I said earlier, it also touches on how to build friendships, because you never know where those relationships might lead. All of that is in the book. It’s intended as a resource for journalists and public relations practitioners—drawing lessons from our experiences before and during our time in the Villa. How do you handle criticism? Is the public entitled to criticise? These are some of the things we address.

Secondly, the book seeks to bring Nigerians closer to Buhari as a person. He’s still a towering figure in Nigerian politics and leadership, but he remains misunderstood. For those of us who worked closely with him, we want to provide insight into his character and leadership style.

But honestly, you didn’t do much of that in the book—which I’ve read. You didn’t quite bring Buhari up close. For example, people still remember that vivid image of Buhari sitting in the living room after a meal, using a stick to clean his teeth. That stuck in people’s minds.

Well, perhaps what stood out for me is Buhari’s sense of fairness—his refusal to allow anyone to be cheated. For example, throughout his tenure, despite pressure from the NNPC and others, he resisted calls to deregulate fuel prices. Now, Nigerians are living with the consequences. These are the kinds of decisions that reflect his values. But yes, some of those personal anecdotes aren’t deeply explored in the book.

To be fair, whether it’s “chewing Buhari” or not, there’s a line between trivia and substance. I deliberately avoided the kind of cheap, sensational material people expect. But there’s also a human side to Muhammadu Buhari—the kind of meals he eats in the morning and evening, for instance.

You didn’t say, for example, what his favourite morning dish is?

It’s hinted at. These are the kind of details that, if you tell Nigerians such simple meals are served in the Presidential Villa, they’d argue with you and claim it can’t be true.

But I know that even during Obasanjo’s time, there was akamu and kosai—bean cake and pap.

Yes, exactly.

And that’s not all. As I said, I’m not going to reveal everything in the book here…

And I wouldn’t want you to. You want the book to sell. People have to read it.

But take, for instance, the time they brought him a bill for his meals—and he rejected it. He said, “Look, check what I eat. Is this what you want that kind of money for?” These are the things that reflect his personality. What does he wear? How does he speak? When does he choose to say certain things? These are the human aspects we tried to capture.

What about him as a family man? We don’t hear much about him playing with his grandchildren, for example. Some of his quiet moments. I know you’ve mentioned his love for newspapers. Even now, as a former president, he still insists on reading the dailies.

Absolutely. He reads a lot of them. He’s almost a news junkie. He keeps up with developments. In fact, when you go in to brief him, you’ll often find he knows more about current affairs than you do—even when you’re the one delivering the briefing.

So, those kinds of snippets?

Well, like I said, there’s only so much you can include in a 260-page book. It’s not a tell-all. Before me, Femi [Adesina] had written his own account, and perhaps I repeated one or two narratives from his. But most of what I wrote wasn’t in his book. Others who worked closely with President Buhari should also contribute their stories. We weren’t the only ones around him. So yes, I admit—it couldn’t be a book that captured everything.

Since you describe it as a learning tool for students and PR practitioners, one thing you didn’t really touch on is: how do you survive within the corridors of power as a PR person, especially with competing interests, cabals and those jostling for influence? Is it just about keeping your head down? How did you navigate that?

I did mention in the book—perhaps not in great detail—that for those eight years, to borrow your earlier words, I was walking on eggshells. And I made it clear that it wasn’t because of Buhari himself, but some other individuals in the Villa. For some, I was still seen as an Atiku man. I had come from Atiku’s campaign into Buhari’s, handling media strategy, and while the President trusted me, others didn’t. That mistrust lingered.

There were moments—you’d walk into a room, and suddenly the conversation would stop. You could sense the silence. You knew you weren’t fully accepted in some quarters.

So, the Atiku “baggage” followed you?

I won’t deny it did, at least for some people. I recall an incident where someone had just walked out of the president’s office, and I overheard someone say, “That one who just left is an Atiku man.” But the important thing is, the President didn’t react by saying, “Okay, fire him.” And that’s how we survived.

So there was a kind of quiet tension throughout?

I wouldn’t call it tension, per se. I just took things in my stride. I understood that not everyone would trust you fully, especially in a politically sensitive environment. But what mattered most was the President himself—did he trust you? And Buhari did. Even when you made mistakes, he wouldn’t embarrass you. He would guide you quietly toward correction, rather than publicly rebuke you.

Would you say that’s still the case under the current administration? After all, it’s the same party. From your experience, what advice would you give those now in the Villa?

I’d rather not go there. Because the moment I say something, people will ask, “Aren’t you in the same political party? Why not just talk to them in private?” And the truth is, I know many of them—Bayo Onanuga, the Minister of Information Mohammed Idris, Sunday Dare, Tunde Rahman—we’ve all worked together in the past, and we still share common ground today.

But it will never be the same. This is a different presidency. Yes, it’s the same party, but circumstances evolve. And Nigerians are beginning to come to terms with that reality.