What ‘Burial Ground’ for memos says about Tinubu’s leadership style, by Remi Ladigbolu 

by · The Eagle Online

Behind the humour of an old Lagos anecdote lies a governing philosophy that has shaped Bola Ahmed Tinubu’s rise from governor to president, one built on trust, numbers, quiet authority and an instinct for making difficult decisions.

Every government office has shelves lined with files. Most are ordinary repositories for paperwork awaiting action. 

But inside the Lagos State Governor’s Office during the administration of Tinubu, one shelf acquired an almost mythical status.

It was known simply as the “burial ground.”

It was not an archive. Neither was it a cabinet for confidential records. It was where memoranda went to die.

There, proposals judged to be poorly prepared, financially inconsistent, or unworthy of executive approval quietly gathered dust, often never to be seen again.

The image is at once humorous and profound.

More than two decades later, the “burial ground” has resurfaced, not through official documents or political speeches, but in the memoir of veteran journalist and former Special Adviser to Governor Tinubu, Dapo Thomas.

In: “Lagos Boy and Lagos Politics An Autobiography,” Thomas recounts a private conversation that offers one of the most revealing portraits yet of the man who now occupies Nigeria’s highest office.

The anecdote has since attracted renewed attention after it was shared on X by former presidential spokesman, Tolu Ogunlesi.

According to Thomas, Tinubu explained that he had mentally divided his commissioners into three categories.

The first category consisted of those whose memoranda he could approve after reading them only once.

The second comprised those whose submissions required repeated scrutiny before he was satisfied.

Then came the third category. Their files, Tinubu said, belonged permanently in the “burial ground.”

His explanation remains vintage Tinubu, equal parts wit, sarcasm and management philosophy.

“By now, I can tell you that I know all my commissioners very well. I have grouped them into three categories.

“The first category are people I can sign their files after reading their submissions and their prayers just once. I may be proved wrong tomorrow, but that’s the way I feel about them now.

“The second category are those I can sign for only after I’ve read their submissions and prayers several times over.

“The third category are those whose files may remain in the ‘burial ground’ forever. Look at that shelf over there, their files are plenty there. That’s the ‘burial ground’ for padded submissions and ridiculous prayers.

“Because of what they will eat, their figures never agree or tally. It’s like they forget that I am an accountant. If their figures don’t agree, why should I agree with them?”

For Tinubu, governance was not merely about politics. It was also about arithmetic.

Political memoirs often reveal the private habits of public figures. Few, however, expose an entire governing philosophy in a single anecdote.

The “burial ground” was not simply a shelf. It was Tinubu’s quiet instrument of executive power.

Instead of publicly humiliating commissioners whose proposals failed to convince him, he often chose a subtler method. Weak memoranda simply stopped moving. Poorly argued requests disappeared into administrative oblivion.

It was leadership exercised through restraint rather than spectacle.

That approach says as much about Tinubu’s temperament as it does about his administrative instincts.

Unlike leaders who relish public displays of authority, Tinubu has often projected power more discreetly. Those who have worked with him frequently describe a politician who listens more than he speaks, allows discussions to run their course and only later communicates his decision, sometimes in ways that leave little room for appeal.

The “burial ground” was an extension of that style.

Tinubu’s confidence in public officials was never distributed equally. It was earned.

Thomas writes that the governor disclosed the names of commissioners across the three categories but, in keeping with confidentiality, mentioned only those in the first category, officials Tinubu believed consistently produced reliable work.

Those officials included Wale Edun, now former Minister of Finance and Coordinating Minister of the Economy after leaving the Federal Executive Council in April 2026; Dele Alake, now Minister of Solid Minerals Development; Yemi Cardoso, Governor of the Central Bank of Nigeria; Rauf Aregbesola, former Governor of Osun State and former Minister of Interior; and Professor Yemi Osinbajo, who later served as Nigeria’s Vice President between 2015 and 2023.

In reality, the “burial ground” was doing more than filtering memoranda. It was also filtering the people who submitted them. Every proposal became a test not only of financial prudence but also of competence, judgement and credibility. Those who consistently passed that test earned Tinubu’s confidence, a trust that would shape many of their political careers long after they left Lagos.

Seen through today’s lens, the list is remarkable.

Almost every individual Tinubu regarded as dependable during his Lagos years eventually occupied one of Nigeria’s highest public offices.

That may not have been a coincidence.

It reflected an enduring characteristic of Tinubu’s political career, his preference for building long term relationships with individuals whose competence had been tested over time.

But competence appeared to matter even more.

One sentence in the memoir deserves closer attention.

“It’s like they forget that I am an accountant.”

Strictly speaking, Tinubu is not a chartered accountant. He studied accounting and worked in financial management before entering politics, including professional stints in the United States and Nigeria.

But the remark captures an enduring feature of his public life.

He thinks in numbers.

That mindset became particularly evident during one of the defining episodes of his governorship.

Between 2004 and 2007, the administration of President Olusegun Obasanjo withheld Lagos State’s local government allocations following a dispute over the creation of additional local council development areas.

For many state governments, such a financial shock would have crippled governance.

Lagos responded differently. Tinubu’s administration accelerated reforms aimed at expanding internally generated revenue, strengthening tax administration and tightening fiscal management.

Working with trusted economic advisers, including then Commissioner for Finance, Wale Edun, the state significantly increased its internally generated revenue, laying the financial foundation that subsequent administrations would build upon.

By the time Tinubu left office in 2007, Lagos had transformed its fiscal capacity, providing subsequent administrations with the financial base to sustain major investments in roads, transport, education, healthcare and other public infrastructure. The episode demonstrated that the insistence on credible figures was not merely a personal quirk but a governing principle with lasting institutional consequences.

That experience appears entirely consistent with the philosophy behind the “burial ground.”

When money becomes scarce, every figure matters. Every expenditure demands justification. Every inflated proposal becomes more dangerous.

The shelf, therefore, was not merely symbolic. It reflected an administration that increasingly viewed financial discipline as a prerequisite for political survival.

Nearly two decades later, echoes of that philosophy can still be discerned at the national level.

Perhaps the clearest example is Tinubu’s refusal to retreat from difficult economic reforms despite their immediate political costs.

The removal of fuel subsidy on his first day in office remains one of the boldest and most controversial decisions taken by any Nigerian president in recent decades.

The policy triggered inflation, intensified the cost of living crisis and generated widespread criticism.

Yet Tinubu has consistently resisted calls for a wholesale reversal.

Much like the governor who refused to sign memoranda whose numbers failed to convince him, the President appears reluctant to abandon policies once he believes the underlying economic arithmetic is sound.

Even many opponents acknowledge a defining characteristic of Tinubu’s leadership. Once persuaded by his calculations, he rarely changes course simply because public pressure becomes intense.

Another fascinating lesson from the “burial ground” anecdote is about power.

Modern politics often celebrates leaders who demonstrate authority loudly. Tinubu’s memoir anecdote suggests a different approach.

Power, in his world, is sometimes exercised most effectively through inaction.

By refusing to sign a memo, he did not merely delay a proposal.

He communicated standards. He encouraged better preparation. He reminded commissioners that persuasion required more than eloquent presentations. It required credible numbers.

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In that sense, the “burial ground” became less a cemetery for files than a classroom for governance.

Officials quickly learnt that padding figures or submitting careless proposals carried consequences. Not necessarily public embarrassment. But something perhaps more frustrating.

Nothing.

Years after those files were quietly placed on that shelf, the “burial ground” has acquired a significance far beyond the walls of the old Lagos Government House.

It has become a metaphor.

To admirers, it symbolises fiscal prudence, administrative discipline and an insistence that public resources deserve careful scrutiny before executive approval.

To critics, it reflects an intensely centralised decision making style in which one man’s judgement ultimately determined which ideas lived and which quietly died.

Both interpretations contain elements of truth.

What cannot be disputed, however, is that the anecdote reveals something enduring about Bola Ahmed Tinubu.

Behind the effortless humour lies an exacting administrator.

The shelf called the “burial ground” may have been filled with forgotten memoranda. But it also preserved, perhaps inadvertently, one of the clearest explanations yet of the leadership style that carried Bola Ahmed Tinubu from Lagos House to Aso Rock.

. Ladigbolu is a journalist based in Lagos.

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