The phrase “Trump is Dead” may sound like the title of a Hollywood satire, but in recent weeks it became a viral phenomenon, dominating global conversations on X. What makes it remarkable is not simply that the former American president was the subject of yet another rumour, but that the world’s most advanced democracy suddenly looked as though it were rehearsing Nigeria’s favorite pastime—rumour-making. For decades, America has projected itself as a beacon of democracy, tolerance, diversity, and human rights. It is the country where many minorities, including Nigerians, say they feel freer to practice their faith without harassment than in their own homeland. Its leaders and scholars have shaped international thought, championed freedom of speech, and defended press liberty against authoritarian excesses that silence dissent. And yet, beneath this proud architecture of values, the Trump years offered an unexpected mirror. For once, Nigerians could look at the United States and see not an ideal, but a reflection of their own struggles with leadership, misinformation, and the allure of fiction over reality.
Donald Trump’s presidency, by every account, read like a script written for an African strongman. Brash, raw, sectional, controversial, forever embroiled in image crises, and never shy of conspiracy theories, he resembled the archetypal leader Nigerians have known all too well. His rhetoric was laced with racism, xenophobia, and sexism; his actions repeatedly undermined democratic institutions; his policies polarized society; and his communication style was combative, even abusive. Scholars of democracy, such as Fareed Zakaria have long argued that institutions matter more than individuals, but Trump tested this thesis to its limit, showing how even the world’s strongest institutions could wobble under the weight of one man’s unconventional disregard. Remarkably, despite this avalanche of flaws, he retained overwhelming popularity among millions of Americans, not unlike how Nigerian leaders with checkered pasts continue to command fierce loyalty. It was as though America, for once, was living Nigeria’s political reality.
The “Trump is Dead” trend amplified this strange mirroring. What began as a joke and meme morphed into a phenomenon, proving once again that rumours spread faster than facts, and satire can easily mutate into belief. Matt Groening’s cheeky reference to The Simpsons’ prophetic reputation added fuel, while Vice President J.D. Vance’s remarks about “terrible tragedies” hovering over leadership offered a dose of plausibility. In a society already fatigued by Trump’s age, health scares, and failed assassination attempts, the ground was fertile for rumour to bloom into conviction. This pattern is not new. Nigerians will recall how, despite seeing Muhammadu Buhari alive and functioning, many insisted he had died and been replaced by a Sudanese impostor. Scholars of collective psychology suggest this is less about gullibility and more about wish fulfilment. Leon Festinger’s theory of cognitive dissonance teaches that when reality contradicts people’s expectations, they invent alternative narratives that soothe their discomfort. Thus, rumours often survive not because they are credible but because they satisfy emotional cravings.
The parallel is striking. Nigerians are deeply religious, quick to declare that “what God cannot do does not exist,” yet many doubted God’s power when Buhari recovered from illness, preferring instead the fantasy that he had been replaced. Similarly, in America, despite abundant media scrutiny and institutional transparency, the “Trump is Dead” trend thrived because it aligned with widespread fatigue, fear, and the subconscious longing for an exit from political nightmare. Fiction, in this sense, becomes more palatable than reality. This is why fictional stories captivate us: they validate our expectations. In a novel, the good man triumphs, love prevails, villains fall, and justice is served—no matter how messy the journey. In real life, however, the corrupt often prosper, injustice lingers, and bad leaders win elections. It is therefore not surprising that people project fictional patterns onto reality, insisting on narratives that make them feel entertained, vindicated, or relieved, even when they know them to be untrue.
In truth, the “Trump is Dead” trend says less about Trump himself than about the human condition. It reveals our universal weakness for stories that align with what we wish to believe, even if they defy evidence. Nigerians used Buhari’s rumoured death to console themselves against the pain of misgovernance; Americans used Trump’s imagined demise to relieve themselves of political fatigue. Both cases underscore what psychologists call “confirmation bias”—our tendency to privilege information that validates our pre-existing emotions, expectations, and fears. The danger, of course, is that this indulgence in fantasy can blur the lines between reality and fiction, undermining rational discourse and distorting democratic judgment.
In the end, perhaps the real question is not why the “Trump is Dead” rumour spread, but why people wanted it to be true. The answer lies in our eternal love for stories that promise justice, catharsis, or comic relief, even at the expense of fact. Fiction, after all, is not only entertainment—it is consolation. And in times of political crisis, when reality feels unbearable, the appeal of fiction over reality becomes irresistible.
Bagudu can be reached at bagudumohammed15197@gmail.com or on 0703 494 3575.
