Twitter, that dark corner of social media where trolls, virtue-signalers, social justice warriors and other shady characters reside exploded this week.
President Muhammadu Buhari – or whoever was manning his handle at that time – on Monday tweeted the following: “Many of those misbehaving today are too young to be aware of the destruction and loss of lives that occurred during the Nigerian Civil War. Those of us in the field for 30 months, who went through the war, will treat them in the language they understand”.
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It was deleted by the next day after many Nigerians flagged it. Even a blind man, as they say, could tell that these words are unpalatable, especially at a time like now. I cringed when I read it, having been shown on a colleague’s phone while we sat in a hall in Kano to elect the next president of the Nigerian Guild of Editors.
While that raged on, another issue came up: The motion to change Nigeria’s name. The fact that it was even raised in the first place, during a time like this, makes it probably the most misplaced priority of all time. A House of Reps committee entertained it, for God’s sake, which is exactly why I find it in turn scary, and unsettling. The culprit Jokotoye, a tax consultant, submitted the proposal to a committee at the South West Zonal Public Hearing in Lagos last Wednesday, when he said Nigeria’s current name was an imposition of its past colonial masters and should be changed, and that a change of name for the country would physically and psychologically reflect a new beginning. Other harebrained characters hopped on, some even volunteering to sing the new nation’s national anthem, never mind that it would have to be written first.
But hair-splitting aside, I’m sure by now it’s clear that I’m a massive fan of Nigeria remaining one. After all, I love being a Nigerian, and to be honest I wish to remain one. The things that unite us outweigh those that divide us by far. Someone once called me a hopeless romantic over this same issue. I agreed that I was indeed an incurable romantic. But I disagreed with the ‘hopeless’ part, because I’m actually full of hope that our nation will emerge stronger. But my hope has a catch: We need to reassign our priorities.
In the Nigerian pantheon of misplaced priorities, low-hanging fruit include the siting of important institutions by a number of Nigerian Army chiefs, when hardware is sorely needed. But just so it’s clear, politicians too misplace priorities. Like how President Buhari recently called for investment in the Niger Basin area. Good and fine. Noble, even. But shouldn’t the resolution of security come first? Then Niger State governor, Abubakar Sani Bello, jetted out of Nigeria for God-knows-where while his state is in crisis. I honestly don’t have enough space to list similar misfires that have been deployed by leaders political and otherwise in the past two weeks. Heck maybe even the past one week. It might even be enough to earn us the top spot on a list of countries with the most misplaced priorities in the world.
As I wrapped this article up, I got news alerts that the Federal Government has “indefinitely suspended” Twitter’s operations in Nigeria. Of course, announced by Alhaji Lai Mohammed, Ministry of Information and Culture, via a statement on Twitter (these things write themselves), which read: “The Federal Government has suspended, indefinitely, the operations of the microblogging and social networking service, Twitter, in Nigeria.” I sighed. Instead of mending fences with citizens over the controversial tweet, the priority shifted to banning Twitter itself. Even more ludicrous, are portions which that accused the American social media company of allowing its platform to be used “for activities that are capable of undermining Nigeria’s corporate existence.”
We Nigerians constantly do these things. You know, give priority to things that don’t matter much, over those that are very crucial. We do it, almost as if expecting something different to happen as a result, repeatedly. And of course you know what doctors call someone who keeps repeating one thing over and over again, each time expecting a different outcome. From the very top of the food chain, to the bottom, it’s the same thing. Don’t leave me out of this either. I could’ve written about how to end the scourge of terrorism, or some other hot-button topic, but instead I’m here pointing out mistakes. But ponder this: The citizens most-affected by this piece aren’t ordinary, vanilla-flavored you and I, no. It’s our leaders. And where do these leaders come from? Certainly not Mars. They’re us, and we’re them. The only difference? They have a budget. Tweet that if you can.
