A satirical post recently set social media on fire with a title no curious mind could ignore: “Actors Yul Edochie and Judy Austin and the Breakup Rumours Trailing Them.”
The post claimed, quite confidently, that the Nollywood couple were still together—unbothered by public gossip and even profiting from their silence. According to “insiders,” their absence from social media had drawn more attention than their loudest videos ever did. The writer teased, “They are still together and laughing at you laughing at them. So, what am I trying to say? Dem dey act for una!”
And, as expected, the online jury: our ever-ready “netizens”, poured in their verdicts: some amused, others disgusted, many indifferent.
One said, “They cannot possibly break up that easily now; they know people will mock them.” Another sighed, “Their cup of burukutu.” Someone else prayed, “I wish they remain together until old age, let the drama start then.” And finally came the voice that seemed to rise above the noise: “Just imagine if someone out there is praying for your marriage to scatter? Where do you draw the line between being a fan and pure witchcraft?”
That last comment, though casually made, struck like a philosopher’s line in a comedy show; it pierced the essence of human nature. Why do we wish downfall on those we dislike? Why do we interpret every misfortune as divine punishment, every success as undeserved luck? The truth is, society has always sought comfort in nemesis, the invisible hand of moral revenge.
In our collective psychology, when people defy social expectations by living differently, succeeding controversially, or marrying unconventionally, we search for explanations that suit our emotional logic. We say, “Nemesis will catch up with them.” It is the moral opium that keeps our envy sanctified.
Consider how people reacted to public figures like former INEC chairman Prof. Mahmood Yakubu or even President Bola Ahmed Tinubu. Many Nigerians spoke of nemesis whenever these men faced political storms. The same chorus followed President Buhari during his health crisis; some believed his ailment was divine retribution, and when he recovered, they invented the myth of “Jibrin of Sudan” because their expectations couldn’t accommodate the reality of survival.
This shows that humans are not just moral creatures but emotional interpreters of fate. We bend reality to fit our moral compass. If a good man suffers, we are confused; if a wicked man prospers, we cry injustice. Yet life, in its complex rhythm, defies this arithmetic of good and evil.
Philosophers have long wrestled with this paradox. Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote that “every act of injustice plants its own punishment,” but he also warned that the universe delivers its justice “in silence and certainty,” not necessarily in our lifetime or by our standards. Similarly, Carl Jung explained that nemesis often begins within, the “shadow’s revenge,” when unacknowledged flaws return to humble us. What we call “karma” or “nemesis” may simply be the consequence of character, not cosmic punishment.
Human beings crave symmetry: good should yield good, evil should yield pain. Yet, as the saying goes, “this life has no balance.” We have all seen the corrupt living long and the righteous dying young; the generous man crushed by misfortune and the unkind thriving. A man who donates to charity may still fail in business; a criminal may live long enough to repent. The formula fails because life resists neat equations.
And still, we cling to our logic of moral bookkeeping. We see sickness as sin, poverty as a curse, and tragedy as divine judgment. We whisper, “He must have offended someone.” But who among us has not? If God judged by our human scale of fairness, some of us wouldn’t live another day.
Even in small things, our obsession with nemesis surfaces. We call someone’s heartbreak “karma,” another’s success “grace,” and someone’s delay “divine punishment.” We assume the universe keeps personal grudges. But perhaps it doesn’t. Perhaps life is simply a theater where everyone plays their role, and what we call nemesis is merely the unfolding of consequence within a web too vast for us to see in full.
In Greek mythology, Nemesis was the goddess of retribution and balance, restoring moral order when pride or injustice grew unchecked. But the Greeks did not imagine her as cruel; they saw her as justice personified, the reminder that excess, not evil alone, invites correction. In that sense, nemesis is not vengeance but equilibrium. It is the quiet rebalancing of the moral universe.
In modern thought, the idea survives not as a goddess but as a principle of ethical causation: every action creates its echo, every seed bears its fruit. The Christian scripture puts it simply: “Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.” Yet, as even the Bible acknowledges, rain falls on both the just and the unjust. The lesson is not to wait for nemesis to strike others, but to live aware that life’s moral web is larger than our judgments.
So, if Yul and Judy’s marriage is still intact despite public mockery, perhaps it is not nemesis that holds them together, but grace, or simply the stubbornness of love. And if tomorrow their story changes, it would not mean divine punishment, but the normal evolution of human imperfection.
We must learn, then, to resist the urge to interpret every event as cosmic payback. The universe does not revolve around our sense of justice; it only mirrors the energy we send into it. Life rewards and humbles, often in ways that confound our expectations.
If death itself is inevitable, can it still be called nemesis? Perhaps true nemesis is not the tragedy that befalls others but the blindness within us that celebrates it.
So, before we cheer for someone’s downfall, let us remember: we are all works in progress, sustained not by perfection but by grace. Leave Yul and Judy alone. Their story, like ours, is still being written.
Bagudu can be reached at bagudumohammed15197@gmail.com or on 0703 494 3575.
