Listen, my people. In a land blessed with more oil than sense and more prayer points than functional refineries, we have achieved the impossible: a justice system so precise it can name and shame the poor man’s son for stealing one measly goat, yet develops sudden laryngitis when a “big man” turns an entire state into his personal piggy bank.
Enter Senator Adams Oshiomhole, the Comrade with the microphone, dropping truth hotter than jollof rice at a Lagos owambe.
In this glorious sermon from the Kukah Centre (yes, the one that looks like it was filmed through a bowl of moin moin), Oshiomhole is not here for the sophistry. He’s tired of the script: “We can name the child of a poor man who’s still a goat, but we are afraid to mention the name of a big man who breached the law.” Former governors lose immunity? Sitting governors use fresh immunity like a force field in a bad sci-fi movie? Where will the courage come from? Probably not from the same podiums where everyone suddenly discovers their inner pacifist.
Take Yahaya Bello, the former Kogi State governor. EFCC says he and his associates allegedly laundered and misappropriated a cool ₦80.2 billion in public funds, money that could have turned Kogi into something other than a punchline. But when the heat came, the sitting governor allegedly used his constitutional immunity shield to help Bello dodge the EFCC like a pro footballer avoiding a tackle. Oshiomhole’s question still rings: If you’re scared to name these ones, where exactly will the courage come from? From the village square goat trial? Unlikely.
And then, chef’s kiss, he moves to our second national religion: Religion itself. Not the genuine article, mind you. The deluxe, prosperity-gospel, private-jet edition. The one where pastors turn church altars into crowdfunding platforms. “If you believe in our Lord Jesus Christ, He will deliver you from poverty!” Oshiomhole calls it what it is: a certified lie.
Meanwhile, when the real big man dies, every father-in-the-Lord suddenly remembers the church building fund needs urgent completion. Funny how those donations always trace back to public officers whose salaries we, the suffering masses, are somehow also subsidizing.
It’s peak Nigerian satire, isn’t it? We’ll drag a hungry boy to the village square for one goat, but a governor who allegedly treated state resources like his ex’s WhatsApp chats? “Let’s respect the office. Let’s not mention names. Let us pray.” The same crowd that will cancel you for breathing too loudly near their sacred cows suddenly develops selective blindness when the cow is wearing a designer agbada and has “immunity” tattooed on its forehead.
The Real Punchline
This is why Nigeria remains the land of unlimited potential and very limited accountability. The poor steal goats and get eternal damnation. The powerful steal billions and get church thanksgiving services, billboards with their faces photoshopped next to angels, and glowing obituaries when they finally kick the bucket. “He was a great man of God… who happened to misplace a few billion. Rest in perfect peace.”
Oshiomhole wasn’t pulling punches. He looked the gathering dead in the eye and said the quiet part out loud: this selective courage is at the root of our problems. And religion? We’ve added it to the national pile of nonsense like extra pepper in already spicy stew.
So next time someone tells you to “respect the dead” or “respect the office” while conveniently forgetting the looting, just remember the Comrade’s words. Name the goat thief. Name the big man too. Anything less is just expensive theatre for the masses while the real cast laughs all the way to the next election cycle.
Share this enhanced, sharper version of the clip far and wide. Let the goat conversation continue but this time, with receipts for the bigger animals in the pen.
Nigeria, we hail thee. Land of the brave… but only when the target can’t fight back. 🐐💰
