IF Nigeria had its own TV channel, we’d call it Cruise & Chaos Network, 24/7 unscripted madness, premium gbas gbos, top-tier irony, and government-induced blood pressure. Bomb threats? Missile alerts? Abeg shift. In this country, everybody must collect; Trump, Wike, Emilokan brigade, even innocent bystanders.
Sometimes I wonder whether Nigeria is a failed science experiment or a comedy skit that forgot to end. You laugh at the madness, then suddenly remember, this isn’t fiction. You’re coping with tragedy by calling it cruise. You’re living inside satire with no exit button, no remote control, and definitely no refund.
The saddest part? We’ve seen so much upheaval that the idea of missiles flying over our heads doesn’t inspire fear, only memes. Forgot that bombs have no tribe, no religion, no political party? Nigerians haven’t. We’ve simply mastered the dangerous skill of laughing at things that should shake a nation to its core.
A sitting U.S. President threatening war on Nigeria should be the kind of headline that freezes a country. It should trigger national addresses, emergency meetings, intelligence briefings, and security recalibration. But no. Nigerians processed it the way we handle everything: half disbelief, half jokes, and a sprinkle of “abeg, e no fit happen.”
Hello? Have we forgotten Palestine, Sudan, Congo, and others who once said the same? War doesn’t announce itself politely, it just arrives.
While the world panics, we’re busy trading memes over a foreign power threatening to turn our backyard into a battlefield. Our soil. Our people. Our cities. Yet for many, it’s just another hashtag on X, another viral joke.
If our leaders took us seriously, this would be a national emergency. Instead, we’re here content-creating and joking “Aww, my first war.” That level of emotional detachment says everything about where we are as a nation, wounded, numb, and dangerously unbothered.
Honestly, I don’t blame the people. I blame the leadership.
When leaders treat national crises like minor inconveniences, citizens learn emotional self-defence. When those at the top behave like nothing is urgent, why should the people feel urgency? Nigerians are numb because those meant to shield us have conditioned us to survive without protection.
Let’s zoom in.
Last week’s uproar wasn’t only about external threats, the nation switched focus to Wike and Lt. Yerima. With the snap of a finger, the war threat became old gist.
Wike, bruised but still defiant. Yerima, chesting up like he has nothing to lose.
These two men unintentionally became symbols of a much bigger crisis: the collapse of leadership culture. In a country where national stability matters, Yerima wouldn’t even dare challenge publicly. But when accountability dies, impunity grows wings.
And this generation? We’re done carrying the weight of incompetence.
We no send you. Not your lies. Not your power games. Not your recycled excuses dressed as governance.
We’ve normalized dysfunction so deeply that even fear that basic instinct that keeps nations alive has evaporated. We’ve been laughing at our pain for so long that we don’t know how to react to danger anymore. Nigeria has become a political joke that stopped being funny years ago, yet we keep cracking nervous laughter because facing the truth is too terrifying.
And then there is Zamfara, the most terrorized state in the federation. Communities emptied. Families scattered. Villagers paying taxes to bandits just to stay alive. And the former governor who presided over that ruin? He returns with a convoy long enough to secure an entire endangered village. A whole parade of SUVs protecting one man because of his “importance” while citizens he once governed still sleep with one eye open.
If irony had a permanent address, it would be Zamfara.
Look also at the Edo massacre of innocent hunters, killers still roaming free. Or the Tudun Biri tragedy in Kaduna, where dozens died due to “accidental” military bombing. Again, silence. No real accountability. No urgency. No consequences.
This government, like many before it has perfected the art of not taking Nigerians seriously. They only move when the threat affects them personally. Otherwise, we’re left alone to cry, bury, and move on.
These tragedies, too many to count were preventable, unforgivable, and yet handled with the usual indifference. It’s almost as if the government has an unspoken doctrine: Don’t take Nigerians seriously. They will adjust.
So what does all this tell us, if not that the country is at its breaking point?
This isn’t about Wike and Yerima exchanging words. It isn’t about Twitter hashtags or viral videos. It is a mirror held up to our collective face, reflecting how broken the system is and how dangerously little we’ve been conditioned to matter.
So no, don’t expect us to panic over a war threat. We have been conditioned out of fear. We’ve been numbed by decades of neglect, trauma, and national gaslighting.
You can only shock people who haven’t seen hell. Nigerians? We’ve lived in it for so long we’ve started naming the streets.
Voice just cleared its throat!
- 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.