Femi Akintunde-Johnson
As we were saying… the last time we attempted a kind of informal pathology of the Nigerian condition – focusing on how millions have become high-functioning survivors in a nation afflicted with rolling blackouts (not just NEPA-related), generational poverty, and the sort of systemic sabotage that turns even the simplest ambition into a Sisyphean task. Indeed, to flourish here – not merely exist – requires a mindset forged in steel and steeled in the fire of societal dysfunction. The typical survivor in Nigeria does not rely on discipline, diligence or decorum – that’s the starter pack for heartbreak. Instead, one must embrace a strange cocktail of ingenuity, shamelessness and controlled madness.
To recap, we’d said: “This is not a sanctimonious condemnation of anyone’s understanding of survival tactics, nor is it a liberal glorification of subterfuge. In a jungle of life, prudish gentility is suicidal, and the lion-hearted often live fat and long.” And so, we return to the remaining prototypes – the final stretch of our continuing carnival of coping in a nation perpetually oscillating between comedy and chaos.
Enter the religious merchants, intermediaries and spiritual warlords. When a country is flattened by economic mayhem and paralysed by moral atrophy, the search for divine meaning becomes the only functioning industry. Nigeria’s population explosion means over a hundred million people are in the market for metaphysical answers – and the smart entrepreneurs of spirituality know this. They hawk deliverance like detergent, and market anointing oils as anti-poverty injections. From marital restoration to visa breakthroughs, from charm-proof underwear to witch-proof toddlers – everything is available at the altar, for a fee. The pulpit is now a pulldown menu for life’s shortcuts.
Some of these entrepreneurs have built empires not on faith, but on fear – peddling paranoia about household enemies, imaginary ancestral curses, and jet-fuelled prophecies of sudden wealth. Others lean more theatrical, issuing fire-and-brimstone condemnations to anyone – government, congregant or critic – who dares suggest regulation or sanity. The louder the grammar, the tighter the tithe basket. And when COVID-19 restrictions momentarily clipped their wings, many howled like wounded lions – not because of spiritual urgency, but financial haemorrhage. The true tragedy is how quickly miseducated and socially displaced youths, starved of meaning and belonging, become easy prey for extremist clerics who weaponise outdated doctrines, incite tribal rage, and sell murder as martyrdom.
Meanwhile, a more urbane but equally dangerous faction exists in the corridors of influence – the outrageous spokesmen and media manglers. Their job is simple: talk rubbish, sound confident. They are often hired not for insight, but for incitement – to rain abuse on perceived enemies, drown facts in sludge, and spew enough toxic innuendo to distract the public from asking real questions. These warriors of warped narratives – whether as official press secretaries or freelance keyboard gladiators – operate with the moral clarity of alley cats.
The logic is cruel but effective: the more audacious your lie, the faster your ascent. They attack former allies without blinking, flip narratives with Orwellian agility, and can deny what they said yesterday with a fresh suit and microphone today. Their heroes are those who survived the job, spun out of the whirlwind, and got reappointed elsewhere without so much as a whimper of shame. As long as you can swallow your own vomit and regurgitate it as strategy, you are never out of work.
Now, there was a time when madness was an affliction – something people whispered about and pitied. We shunned it, prayed against it, and never wished it on even the most despicable foes. But in this digital age, madness is branding. Insanity is business. Deviants now rule the algorithm. Transgender influencers, Internet trolls, sex-positive philosophers, and spiritual clowns with borrowed accents have become celebrities, raking in likes, shares and endorsement deals.
It’s no longer surprising to see a man in a wig and fishnet leggings teaching “confidence” to a sea of teenagers, while a female “guru” sells powdered yoni cleansers to her three hundred thousand disciples. The word celebrity has been deflated – no longer the reserve of true excellence or achievement. Instead, it is now worn by those willing to say the most provocative thing, dance naked in symbolic light, or quote sacred texts while half-nude. The youth lap it up – not necessarily because they believe, but because virality now trumps veracity. Social media has become the new oracle – and its gods feed on absurdity.
If you’ve scrolled through your phone recently, you’ll understand. One minute it’s a “man of God” pouring Fanta on a baby’s head; the next, it’s a pastor proposing to his choir mistress during deliverance. Weird is now warm. Crazy is now cute. We’re all just emojis waiting for the next dopamine hit, while the giants of ego and nonsense collect sponsorship and e-money.
Lurking within this ecosystem is a more dangerous cousin – the fake news syndicates. These are not your everyday idle mischief-makers. These are well-practised peddlers of digital fiction – producing falsehoods with the precision of assembly lines. They manufacture obituaries for the living, clone voices of the deceased, and craft scandals from shadows. In earlier decades, media organisations would issue apologies when such slips occurred. Now, they double down, wait for engagement to peak, then quietly delete or pivot to the next chaos.
We’ve seen people declared dead in the morning, then quoted by night. Ghosts have been reported stealing public funds, snakes swallowing safes, and cloned presidents living in underground bunkers. And while real families search desperately for kidnapped loved ones, these fakesters have already decided the nationality, religion and political affiliation of the suspects – complete with GPS coordinates and tribal commentary. It would be hilarious if it wasn’t so homicidal.
What makes it worse is that our law enforcement agencies seem more invested in chasing heady Okada/Keke offenders and extorting software developers than tracking the origins of these poisonous lies. So the fake news ecosystem thrives, like weeds in a neglected compound – feeding off our distrust, division and despair.
As we attempt to round off this sad but necessary exposition, it’s important to point out that this list is far from exhaustive. There are more cadres and corners – hustlers in agbada, criminals in cassocks, saints in satire – all lining up to punch their tickets to survival in this vast and vapid jungle. But one last species deserves mention – the smartphone gladiators of the next generation.
The future, they say, belongs to the youth. But in Nigeria, the youth have been handed a loaded phone and no compass. In a digital world where popularity equals profit, the line between influence and idiocy has disappeared. What we now witness is a generation flinging itself at fleeting trends and challenges without regard for consequence.
One of the most disturbing spectacles of recent memory was the “Silhouette Challenge” – where seemingly normal young people (mostly women, but not exclusively) would dance suggestively in regular light, then cut to a glowing red backdrop, stark naked or close enough. It was a baffling parade of self-exposure, laced with the hunger for clicks, likes, and fleeting relevance. We quietly resisted the urge to open most of the clips dumped in WhatsApp groups – not out of piety, but protest. A society where nudity is the loudest voice in the room is not just off-course – it’s being steered by inner demons.
Many of these participants are not even financially motivated – no endorsements, no gigs, no appearance fees. Just the ephemeral thrill of being seen, liked, noticed. They sacrifice dignity, privacy, and future credibility on the altar of shallow engagement. It’s not always about money anymore – sometimes, it’s about soothing that gnawing emptiness inside. And that may be the saddest survival strategy of them all – especially when you realise that more absurdities have supplanted it, and more are in the offing.
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