In recent times, my worry for Nigeria has grown heavier than ever. The first question that haunts me is simple yet unsettling: when people relentlessly announce that “genocide is happening in Nigeria,” how exactly do they imagine this helps a divided, polarized, and fragile nation? Are they trying to heal it, or to prepare its final grave? Their proclamations often read like an obituary written too early, a dirge so loud that it summons the very death it mourns. Rather than easing pain, these messages deepen fear, insecurity, captivity, and helplessness, leaving citizens, even the powerful, feeling exposed and abandoned.
This dilemma intensified when US President Donald Trump declared Nigeria a “Country of Particular Concern,” alleging a genocide against Christians. He announced on October 31, 2025, and amplified it on his Truth Social platform, warning that Christianity faced an existential threat and claiming thousands of Christians were being slaughtered by “radical Islamists.” He ordered an investigation and even hinted dramatically that the US might intervene militarily if Nigeria failed to protect its Christians.
Nigeria’s government and the African Union swiftly rejected the charge, countering that Boko Haram has killed more Muslims than Christians and that the violence does not fit the pattern or intent of genocide. They insisted that the government is committed to protecting all citizens regardless of faith. But what truly troubled me was not just Trump’s statements; it was the realization that many Nigerians eagerly amplified the narrative with passionate mourning songs, emotional proclamations, and tragic sensationalism. Why would anyone, in an attempt to protect their own community, choose weapons of exaggeration that ultimately endanger everyone?
My concern is not about whether Trump’s accusation is true or false; scholars remind us that conflict narratives become dangerous not only when they are inaccurate, but when they are emotionally intoxicating. Hannah Arendt warned that “fear thrives on stories,” and in Nigeria today, fear has become a national currency. The real question, therefore, is what consequences such emotional outbursts unleash. I mean consequences that now make us more insecure, more polarized, and more restless than the sympathizers intended.
Predictably, following Trump’s comment, the country plunged into fiery debates—tribal, religious, political, and deeply emotional. Social psychologists often note that humans cling to narratives that validate their pain, and this reflected perfectly in the reactions from all sides. Meanwhile, terrorism and banditry thrive in environments where fear is amplified, and communication is careless. Extremists feed on chaos, surveillance of public discourse, and the strategic advantage created when citizens themselves spread panic faster than the perpetrators. Nigerian soldiers fight in the forests, but many citizens unwittingly fight against Nigeria on their keyboards.
Trump should understand that Boko Haram’s philosophy has always been to instil fear, sow division, and create a paralyzed society. There is no religious, economic, or ideological gain that ordinary Muslims derive from their violence. This is why the Sultan’s position that Boko Haram should be treated strictly as criminals, not representatives of Islam, is one of the most reasonable voices in the conversation. Every group, every religion, every region has its criminals; collective blame only deepens wounds.
I am not against Trump offering assistance; any help that dismantles extremism is welcome. What worries me is the approach, the sweeping pronouncements that inflame rather than protect. Conflict theorist Johan Galtung warned that how a problem is framed often determines whether violence escalates or reduces. Unfortunately, the framing of Nigeria as a genocidal warzone has already escalated tension, emotion, and retaliatory violence.
One of the most damaging consequences of Trump’s declaration is the wildfire of hateful debates it ignited. Every group suddenly felt compelled either to confirm or disprove the claim. Extremists, sensing an opportunity, intensified attacks almost as though trying to validate the global narrative. Banditry spread into Niger, Kwara, and Kogi States. Churches became fresh targets. It felt like returning to the darkest days many hoped never to witness again.
Even more disturbing is that extremists, unconsciously, seem eager to provide evidence for Trump’s accusation, forgetting that Muslims, too, are being killed in Zamfara, Kebbi, Kano, Niger, and elsewhere. This one-sided desperation to fit tragedy into a specific narrative makes everyone more vulnerable. Mischief-makers exploit the tension, sowing chaos in a country already strained by suspicion and fatigue. Online sensationalism: conspiracy theories, ethnic profiling, and stereotypes have become a sport. Worse, this is not limited to the uneducated; academics, professionals, and opinion leaders now display the same intellectual recklessness. We are all simply Nigerians, united by our weakness for emotional outbursts.
As 2027 approaches, desperation increases. Those with long-standing resentment against the government see Trump’s comments as ammunition. Terrorists, too, have noticed the pattern: each attack becomes a “confirmation” of genocide, each tragedy a data point for international attention. The killing of Brigadier General Uba Musa, the abduction of 30 worshippers in Kwara, and the kidnapping of 25 schoolgirls in Kebbi—all tragic events were instantly woven into political and religious narratives. Had the Kebbi schoolgirls been Christians, many would have seized it as “proof” of genocide. But the fact that they were Muslims shows how indiscriminate terrorism is, and how deceptive a single-angle narrative can be.
The problem is not Tinubu, just as it was not Jonathan, and not even Buhari—a former military general whose tenure witnessed the rise of banditry as a distinct threat. Nigeria’s challenges have outlived administrations because they do not originate solely from presidents. They stem from societal desperation, weak institutions, and longstanding structural grievances that opportunists exploit. When a nation becomes desperate, truth becomes negotiable, and every narrative, no matter how dangerous, can feel “right.”
This desperation also fuels attention-seekers like Sheikh Ahmad Gumi, whose reckless statements create the false impression that Muslims sympathize with bandits. He recently claimed bandits are on a revenge mission and are more open to dialogue than IPOB. He acknowledged their atrocities but insisted they have grievances. He has consistently advocated for negotiation rather than military pressure, a position that, while framed as humanitarian, often comes across as indulgent, misplaced, and morally jarring.
Yet Gumi’s type is not exclusive to the North. Many citizens across regions display similar desperation, always eager to highlight selective tragedies. When Trump accused Nigeria of Christian genocide, some responded by pointing out that Christians are killing Christians in the Southeast. Governor Charles Soludo bluntly emphasized this, explaining that the violence in the region is internal, with both attackers and victims bearing Christian names. His point was not to trivialize suffering but to reject simplistic narratives that ignore political, social, and criminal complexities.
As the 2027 election draws near, narratives will become even more weaponized. Extremists will intensify attacks to validate global fears; citizens will interpret every tragedy through political and ethnic lenses; and many will swallow any story that paints their perceived opponents as villains.
I must end by stating clearly that Gumi’s sympathetic rhetoric toward bandits does not represent the position of most Muslims. His views are outliers: unsettling, reckless, and out of sync with the pain of ordinary Nigerians. But Muslims also bear responsibility: silence in the face of such excesses gives room for misinterpretation. Just as some overlook tragedies in their own backyard while magnifying those elsewhere, selective outrage erodes fairness and moral clarity.
Trump’s diagnosis is dramatic, partial, and emotionally charged, which risks perpetuating the very violence it claims to expose. And unless Nigerians learn to resist the temptation of sensational narratives, we may continue writing our national obituary long before death arrives.
Bagudu can be reached at bagudumohammed15197@gmail.com or on 0703 494 3575.
