THERE is something Nigerians have become frighteningly good at: forgetting what should matter.
Not because we are wicked people or because we do not care, but because somewhere along the line, we became experts at surviving distraction.
Every week, there is a new trend, a new outrage, a new scandal, a new joke, a new controversy to consume our attention. Before we can ask questions about yesterday’s tragedy, today’s entertainment arrives, and just like that, we move on.
Our focus is actually excellent. The problem is that we focus on absolutely everything except the things that should terrify us. Children are being kidnapped, villages are attacked, people are butchered, families are displaced, and before sunset, somebody, somewhere, will say something ridiculous enough to completely reset the national conversation.
And like clockwork, we will gather.
Last week, we moved from discussing insecurity to debating akara. We laughed, created content, and even crowned new titles. The memes have been creative, the arguments have been passionate, and to spice things up further, we were gifted another national assignment: arguing over whether khaki should become adire. And while we argue over fabric and food, Nigerian children remain in captivity. Mothers are counting days and nights. Families do not know whether their children have eaten, slept, cried, or survived. Yet somehow, our national conversation has shifted elsewhere.
Think about that for a second. This is not the first time. When insecurity worsens, we are given a new spectacle.
When kidnappings rise, we are handed a new controversy.
When communities mourn, we receive a new distraction.
I genuinely thought that when those Oyo school students—or rather, babies—were abducted, and while students writing their examinations in Borno were kidnapped in broad daylight, Nigeria would pause. I thought we would collectively lose our minds, and parents would protest, citizens would demand answers, and leaders would feel enough pressure to move heaven and earth.
Instead, we moved on.
While we were arguing over one controversy, more than a thousand people were reportedly abducted across northern Nigeria within just a few months this year. Entire communities have become accustomed to living with fear as though it were a utility bill. (Amnesty Nigeria).
We have also somehow normalised the idea that schools are no longer merely places of learning. They are now possible crime scenes. Think about how absurd that is. Parents send their children off to school and quietly pray that what awaits them that day is education, not abduction.
And before someone says, “But these things have always happened,” let me remind you that more than a decade after Chibok, some girls still never made it back home. We have become disturbingly good at living alongside horror.
Maybe that is the real tragedy.
Not insecurity.
Not kidnappings.
Not terrorism.
Our deepest tragedy is how easily we forget.
We no longer sustain outrage. We consume it.
A tragedy trends on Monday. We mourn on Tuesday. We joke on Wednesday, and by Thursday, we are back to celebrity weddings, some Instagram or TikTok scandals, or the latest political nickname.
Then the next tragedy arrives, and the cycle starts again.
And whenever Nigerians somehow manage to remain angry for more than 48 hours, something fascinating happens. The moment we begin asking uncomfortable questions, we are reminded why many people would rather protest online than in the streets. Because public outrage in this country often comes with tear gas, intimidation, disruption, and lectures about maintaining peace. Then, almost like magic, a new national emergency appears on our timelines.
A celebrity scandal, a political soundbite, a viral controversy, or a fresh argument to keep us occupied.
And we, the ever-obedient citizens of the Federal Republic of Distraction, abandon the difficult conversation and rush to the new one. Because, apparently, demanding accountability is exhausting.
Before anyone misunderstands me, Nigerians deserve laughter. God knows we need humour to survive, but humour should never become a substitute for accountability. Entertainment should never replace empathy, and distraction should never silence outrage.
Nigeria has not just failed in protecting lives. We, too, have failed when we allow ourselves to become permanently distracted from demanding better.
And yes, I said what I said.
- Kabara is a writer and public commentator. Her syndicated column, Voice, appears in News Point Nigeria newspaper on Monday. She can be reached at hafceekay01@gmail.com.