In Nigeria, tragedy has long ceased to be news—it is the norm. A road crash here, a building collapse there, a market razed by fire, yet another tanker explosion. These events have become so common that their recurrence is met not with shock, but with resignation. In moments of helplessness, many Nigerians have surrendered logical explanations and turned instead to the mystical. It’s easier—perhaps even comforting—to blame “end time” signs or divine punishment for our collective sins than to wrestle with the truth: our tragedies are mostly man-made, preventable, and worsened by systemic failure.
By Bagudu Mohammed
As religious movements grow stronger in influence, so too does the belief that salvation lies in prayers rather than policies, miracles over mechanisms. Clerics command larger audiences than scientists, and prophecies carry more weight than fire codes or building regulations. This spiritual escapism thrives because, in a society where science is ignored and logic seems powerless, the supernatural becomes a refuge. But when reckless driving on good roads kills more people than potholes do, when a snake supposedly swallows public funds, when buildings collapse on children writing exams, one must ask: is this divine wrath or just deep dysfunction?
The daily news is a horror anthology: bandit attacks, ritual killings, cult violence, kidnappings, floods sweeping away homes, fires consuming entire marketplaces, domestic abuse, cybercrime, sexual harassment scandals, marriages unraveling like old threads on social media. All of this, alongside electricity that flickers like a dying candle and an economy held together by loans and guesswork. As Nigerians, we scroll through these calamities with stoic faces, shaking our heads, already conditioned to expect the worst. Even when the news defies logic, like the infamous tale of ₦71.2 billion in student loans vanishing into thin air, we barely blink.
The one tragedy that haunts me most is the recurring devastation of market fires and collapsing buildings. It is not just the loss of property that cuts deep—it is the loss of hope, the erasure of livelihoods, and the overwhelming sense that we are doomed to repeat this cycle. Just last week, a portion of Jos’s Terminus Market was razed by fire. Again. This is the same market that was engulfed in flames back in 2002, once hailed as the largest in West Africa. The déjà vu is almost cruel.
And in a country where many struggle to eat twice a day, where loans are taken just to breathe, where even the government runs on borrowed money, these disasters are more than news—they are national heartbreaks. Yet, instead of demanding systemic reform, we light candles, hold vigils, and declare that the end times are upon us. But how can it be that, while we blame the apocalypse, citizens of other nations are thriving, celebrating good news more often than they mourn?
I remember a call from Hajara, an old friend and a nurse, during the brutal economic crunch of 2023 when the fuel subsidy was removed. The middle class had all but evaporated, and survival became a daily grind. Hajara told me she had relocated to Saudi Arabia and just received her first paycheck. “Bagudu,” she said with laughter in her voice, “I thought I was destined to suffer. But now, look at me. From nothing in Nigeria to something abroad.” She even sent me money. How can one still cling to the idea that Nigeria’s pain is universal or divinely sanctioned when our own citizens are flourishing elsewhere?
The truth is bitter but clear: our tragedies are not preordained—they are products of negligence, bad governance, societal complacency, and a culture of shortcuts. According to the Federal Fire Service, nearly 30% of all urban fire incidents occur in markets. About 79% are traced back to electrical faults and human carelessness. In 2024 alone, 17 market fires were recorded, with over 10 in just one month, wiping out billions in goods and dreams. Similarly, over 600 building collapses have occurred since 1974, with 135 recorded in just two years. Jos again made headlines in July 2024 when a school building caved in on students taking exams, claiming 12 lives and injuring dozens.
Instead of tackling these patterns with urgency, we entertain conspiracy theories and scapegoat morality. Former Zamfara Governor Abdul’aziz Yari infamously blamed an outbreak of meningitis on “fornication,” as though public health is at the mercy of virtue rather than vaccines. It is in this theatre of absurdity that faith often replaces facts, and prayers substitute planning.
Curiously, despite the frequency of these disasters, insurance remains largely ignored. A trader can buy ₦2 million worth of goods today and watch them burn tomorrow, with no backup plan but tears. A motorcyclist can lose his only source of income to theft and be left stranded, clinging to hope or holy water. The psychology of “it won’t happen to me” has drowned any instinct for risk management. We say, “I’m covered by grace,” even when we’re not covered by a fire extinguisher.
Still, what stands out amidst all this is the remarkable emotional intelligence of Nigerians. We have somehow mastered the art of moving on without breaking down. We laugh, we dance, we sing—even when our world is burning. Surveys consistently rank Nigerians among the happiest people in Africa. Perhaps it is the power of community, of shared suffering, of a collective decision to choose joy in spite of everything. Or perhaps it is survival instinct—an emotional adaptation to hardship, like growing thicker skin in a storm.
And yet, these repeated disasters expose a deeper rot. We often point fingers solely at leadership, but is leadership truly the only problem? What of a citizenry that ignores building codes, that sabotages power supply, that builds in flood plains, that shuns regulation and ridicules discipline? What can even the most upright leader do when surrounded by a society that despises maintenance, mocks order, and worships shortcuts?
We overlook risks by dressing our carelessness in religious robes. We reject fire safety but accept fasting. We refuse insurance but cling to intercession. We dismiss experts but follow prophets. In this upside-down world, it’s no wonder the phrase “Nigeria happens” has become our shorthand for tragedy—an explanation that explains nothing, yet says everything.
So, when Nigeria happens again—and it will—remember this: when a market fire hazard occurs, it is not an act of punishment from God towards the traders for their sins. The building did not collapse due to sin, and the hardship is not the work of the devil. It’s our lapses. Until we face that, the cycle will continue. And we will keep calling it fate or “end-time” tragedies.
Mohammed sent in this piece from Minna. He can be reached at bagudum75@gmail.com or via WhatsApp at 07034943575.
