With fingers crossed

When Transparency International published its 2022 corruption perception index (CPI) through its Nigerian partner, CISLAC,  much was clear about what makes the most corrupt countries also the poorest and most miserable countries among the comity of nations. 

The good news, however, was that Nigeria moved four places from the 154 least corrupt country out of a total of 180 to a historic score of 150.  

Anti-corruption initiatives,  essentially what President Buhari campaigned and won the landmark 2015 elections on, were dead on arrival – partly because of the sheer irresponsibility and abdication of duty he displayed from the get-go. This is probably the case, but then, a marked improvement in the perception of corruption improved and those who are willing to be kind and charitable to the ex-president would argue that that was the inflection from whence the measures being slowly implemented began to pay off.

There were a number of laudable initiatives such as the TSA, the IPISS, the automation of revenue collection processes and the recent deregulation of the fossil fuels sector.

But corruption is evidently much more serious than our leadership was willing to admit and base their responses on. It sucks away public finances, undermines good governance, ends livelihoods, and consumes lives. It’s sometimes frustrating noting that most anti-corruption activists centre much of their work on efforts towards exposing suspects followed by a media tragicomedy in handling those guilty of it instead of enlisting the direct action of the common people in the war. But despite the underlying gravity of the problem, sometimes a surprisingly effective way to fight against corruption is to make people laugh about it.

To begin with, humour helps upend the narrative of the unshakeable power that corrupt officials depend on to remain in office. Laughter, according to a classic theory, can devalue the subject of the humour, as a comedian once put it, “you can’t really respect or fear something you are laughing at.” There is a popular belief that the most potent weapons known to mankind are satire and ridicule. Making fun of corrupt officials is a way to tell them, “We know what you’re doing, and we know you’re not invincible.”

Distinguished Senator Adamu Muhammed Bulkachuwa must hate himself these days… and I can only imagine how hard his wife is chewing his ears out for basically confessing that he had helped his colleagues in the Senate pervert the course of justice with the help of his wife who was the president of the Court of Appeal – the endgame for parliamentary election litigation in the country. Of course that was not what he meant to do – it was a slip of the tongue, which in a way makes it even more serious but then too, funnier as well.

The judiciary is in panic mode, activists are calling for blood, and Nigerians are supposed to be outraged and scandalised. Since the news broke, I have not heard it repeated by anyone I know. Such news is considered a distraction not worth the light of day at any reputable teburin-mai shayi, a nonissue that comes up every other Tuesday with no ceremony. 

Yes, I am one of those who think that this is more of a comedy show than a “gate-able” scandal. No one was shocked, no one felt slighted, no one was disturbed. Other than those with statutory mandates to ensure that such does not happen, of course.

This reminds you of the comments made by the strongman of Kano State politics, Senator Rabi’u Musa Kwankwaso in the wake of the demolition exercise embarked upon by the government of his protege, Governor Abba Kabir Yusuf, better known as Abba Gida-Gida. After briefing President Tinubu, Kwankwaso gave a conference where he alleged that Tinubu was shocked to find out the depravities perpetrated by the outgone Ganduje administration. I think the senator knows enough to not actually believe that the president was shocked.

What is certain is that neither himself, nor the president or even the incumbent Kano State governor were shocked by anything they accuse the erstwhile administration of. They were all at one time or the other state governors in the 4th Republic of Nigeria. To have been a governor and claim to be shocked by such misdeeds is a hilarious lie!

That is why I believe that at the end of the day we can do more for ourselves to laugh at such revelations, itself as a means to the end of defeating the menace of political and economic corruption in our country. This approach will help spread the anti-corruption message more effectively.

The clips on social media are effective in large part because people enjoy watching them and like sharing them. Instinctively, we are in tune with what research suggests: funny content spreads faster and farther. Humour, in short, is often more likely to go viral. 

Furthermore, the humour will catalyse the ignition and sustenance of passive protests. Fighting corruption can be draining and dispiriting. Maintaining a mass movement against corruption is hard. The use of humour—adding some fun and levity to this serious and sometimes dangerous enterprise—can both lessen the burden of prolonged protest and increase participation from those who might otherwise feel too daunted to turn out.

When you think of it, you also realise that government attempts to match or suppress humour often backfire. Consider the tiktoker, Aminu Muhammad, who wanted the former first lady, Aisha Buhari, held to account for how she put on so much weight having entered the State House much leaner. She cracked down hard on the poor student and that was a very big mistake.

The whole country heard about her venal abuse of state power in settling a score with a young citizen whose crime was asking questions the constitution guarantees his rights to. The first lady’s impulse to squash the joke points to a general rule of humour and activism –  attempts to suppress humour often only draw more attention to it. 

In any case, I am laughing with my fingers crossed. Of course, using humour as an anti-corruption tactic has potential downsides. Treating a serious subject with humour can risk trivialising the issue. Sometimes making jokes about injustice contributes to a sense of resigned acceptance or cynical complacency rather than outrage. The jokes may relieve the pressure that might otherwise have been directed toward mobilising for systemic change. But these risks, though real, are more likely the result of misusing humour as a tactic, or using the wrong kind of humour, rather than deploying humour in a way that amplifies and sustains a disruptive anti-corruption message.

If used appropriately, humour has a unique power to drive home the injustices and absurdities of a corrupt system in a way that is easier for activists to spread and harder for governments to counter. 

The senator spoke during the valedictory session of the 9th Assembly, effectively the end of an era that will be up to history to profile and aptly entitle it. It is worth celebrating that we are moving forward however slowly. So, with a heavy heart, and with apologies to former president Obasanjo, I dey laugh. 

I dey laugh, but with my fingers crossed!