At the Washington prayer breakfast—an event that now doubles as a stand-up comedy open mic—Donald J. Trump, prophet of chaos and patron saint of unintended satire, found time to give a short out (not a shout-out, because even praise must suffer budget cuts) to African dignitaries in the room. Among them was Remi Tinubu, wife of Nigeria’s president.
Trump, speaking with the confidence of a man who once mistook a briefing note for a napkin, announced that Mrs Tinubu was “respected” and a pastor of Nigeria’s largest church. How he arrived at this theological and demographic masterpiece is unclear. Perhaps he Googled “Nigeria + woman + religion” five minutes before the speech. Perhaps the Holy Spirit whispered it to him through Fox News. Only the internet knows, and the internet is refusing to testify.
Not done yet, Trump went on to reminisce about how he waited until Christmas Day to bomb her country—clearly for maximum religious effect. Nothing says “Season’s Greetings” quite like precision-guided democracy. Somewhere, angels wept. Somewhere else, Lockheed Martin smiled.
Back home, the Nigerian bootlicking industry immediately went into overdrive. Leading the chorus was Mrs Tinubu herself, who reportedly expressed delight that while Nigerians groaning under the yoke of her husband’s misrule had failed to sufficiently genuflect, the world—no less—had finally recognised their greatness. Translation: your suffering is regrettable, but have you considered how admired we are abroad?
Enter Adams Oshiomhole, fresh from an important foreign policy mission involving a high-class professional sugar baby. Clearly energised by jet lag and validation, he announced that Nigeria had finally come in from the cold and into the warm, orange-tinted embrace of Trump. Trump, he said, had paid handsome regard to the beautiful president’s wife.
At this point, someone was expected to shout Hallelujah! preferably with background music and a collection basket.
But let us pause. When your national self-esteem is so low that praise from a certified racist moron feels like a diplomatic breakthrough, you are not climbing out of a hole—you are furnishing it. Curtains, throw pillows, maybe a chandelier.
Nigeria today behaves like an abused partner with chronic low self-esteem. Any fleeting glance from the abuser—foreign or domestic—is treated as affection. A nod becomes respect. An insult, properly repackaged, becomes honour. A bomb on Christmas Day becomes proof that we matter.
And that, perhaps, is the saddest punchline of all.
Centre for Nigeria Progress 