Another week, another hashtag soaked in blood. The soil of Benue State is once again drenched with the blood of its people, in what has become a relentless, soul-crushing cycle of violence. In the last few days, reports have emerged of a horrific massacre in Yelwata, Guma LGA, where armed men, believed to be herdsmen, descended on a community in the dead of night. They slaughtered, they burned, they destroyed. Initial reports suggest scores of lives were extinguished—many of whom were already Internally Displaced Persons, people who had fled previous horrors only to be cornered by death in a supposed place of refuge. In Nigeria, existing—especially in the wrong place or identity—can feel like a capital offense.
The timeline of Benue’s suffering is a long and brutal one, a chilling reflection of the Nigerian state’s most profound failure: protecting its people. For years, communities in the nation’s so-called “Food Basket” have been caught in violent conflict over land and resources—an issue that has since morphed into what many fear is a campaign of targeted attacks against farming communities. Today, Nigerian youth are not just grieving; they are enraged. They have watched government promises to secure the region evaporate into thin air. That anger now spills over, latching onto unexpected places. Things took a peculiar turn when the public glare shifted from the fields of Benue to the timelines of our brightest stars.
The outrage which has simmered under the surface of our national consciousness has found new targets: our heroes and celebrities. Take Tunde Onakoya, the chess master who lifted the nation’s spirits by breaking a Guinness World Record. His work with Chess in Slums Africa is a rare, flickering light. Yet, when he presented his certificate to President Tinubu, a significant portion of the online public met this moment not with uncomplicated pride, but with scorn. For them, the image of a celebrated youth smiling with the leader of a country that is actively failing its citizens was a jarring disconnect. The criticism was swift: this is not the time for photo-ops.
This reaction is emblematic of a societal psyche scarred by relentless trauma. The Nigerian system has primed its citizens to expect the worst, to live with a constant, low-humming dread. We have been socialized to adapt to systemic rot, to absorb the shock of each new massacre, and to swallow the bitter pill of government inaction. The social contract has been shredded. So when a hero, a symbol of hope, appears to be fraternizing with the very establishment perceived to be the source of our pain, it feels like a betrayal. The public’s response isn’t an attack on Tunde’s achievement; it is a cry of anguish. Your success feels jarring when set against the silence of fresh graves. We don’t need heroes right now; we need allies in our grief.
This sentiment is a direct consequence of years of political gaslighting. We have been told to be resilient, to be patient, to pray. We have watched as national tragedies become political footballs, devoid of real justice or accountability. The Nigerian psyche has been stretched to its limit. There is no more room for platitudes. The demand for public figures to “read the room” is a demand for them to acknowledge the suffocating despair that defines the national mood. Ours is a country caught in perpetual mourning, and we expect our leaders—both political and cultural—to reflect that reality.
The same searing spotlight has been turned on Afrobeats star Ayra Starr. Her recent outburst against online bullying, where she cried out for people to “focus on issues that actually matter and leave me tf alone,” was, according to many, precipitated by criticism of her perceived silence on the Benue killings. To her critics, her posts about music and fashion felt trivial, almost insulting, against the backdrop of a national tragedy. This is the new, unforgiving reality for Nigerian public figures: your platform is not your own. It is a tool, a megaphone that the public expects you to use in the fight for our collective survival. Silence is no longer a neutral stance; it is seen as complicity.
The infantilisation of Nigerian youth, a tactic so clearly diagnosed during the #EndSARS protests, is still at play, but with a twist. While the political class may see young people as “wards” to be managed, the youth themselves are now placing the burden of moral clarity and social responsibility on their own celebrated peers. They are demanding a new kind of leadership, one that is not defined by proximity to power or personal success, but by solidarity and vocal empathy. The attacks on Tunde Onakoya and Ayra Starr are not merely online drama; they are a symptom of a generation that is rejecting escapism. They are refusing to be placated by success stories while the foundational structures of their country crumble.
What people fail to realise is that we can’t applaud our way out of a national crisis. The public backlash shows that the rot is not just in our government, but in our expectations of each other. We are a people starved of genuine leadership, and so we project that need onto anyone with a platform. We demand that our singers and chess players become the activists and moral compasses that our politicians have failed to be. While perhaps an unfair burden, it is the inevitable outcome of a system that has left its citizens to fend for themselves.
As is constantly reinforced, the fight for Nigeria’s soul is a marathon, not a sprint. The pain of Benue Bleeding is a stark reminder that our house is on fire. The public’s reaction to its own heroes is a sign that no one is immune from the heat. Moving forward requires more than just demanding accountability from the government; it requires a deep, uncomfortable conversation about what we owe each other in times of profound crisis. The shared grief that connects us must translate into a shared responsibility.
May the souls of the hundreds killed in Benue, and the thousands before them, find the peace in death that they were so brutally denied in life.