There are two things we struggle to challenge in Nigeria — culture and age-imposed authority. In our culture, our elders are always assumed to be wise. The number of years a person has lived in Nigeria is synonymous with the depth of wisdom they are assumed to possess. For that reason, we’re taught that it’s the height of disrespect to challenge them.
But Raye did both — she spoke up against bad governance and a 72-year-old president, defying everything culture says young people should be.
“How brave!” I thought as I watched this brilliant young woman express her displeasure for over four minutes. It was the second time I had seen a young person on the brink of tears while speaking against the effects of bad governance that day. In the early hours, I interviewed Amaka, a 27-year-old lady who blamed the ruling party, All Progressives Congress (APC), for the avoidable death of her mother. For 30 minutes, I heard gaping pain and justifiable anger in her voice.
I wondered why I wasn’t speaking up like Raye and Amaka because I’d also bought a crate of eggs for ₦7,000 that week. So, I reposted Raye’s video on TikTok and carried on with my day.
Raye’s follow-up video left me in shock. An NYSC official had called her, sternly instructing her to delete the video. In response, Raye asked a question I wouldn’t have been brave enough to ask, “Ma, are you threatening me?” The video went viral in a couple of hours, and an important conversation started: Why is Raye being silenced?
If I were Raye, I would most likely have caved in fear, settled into a state of helplessness, and given into silence because that is all I’ve been taught to do. That is what I did when a lecturer locked me out of the exam room where I was supposed to write my final year exam because I was wearing a nose ring.
I was too afraid to ask him why my nose ring bothered him, so again, I did as I had been taught. — I removed my nose ring quietly, went on my knees and begged until he allowed me to sit for my exam. At that moment, I had no say. The nose ring was mine, and it was on my body and no one else’s, but still, I had no say. It was his exam hall, his rules. With my future at stake, I chose silence instead of bravery.
So did Ada* (26), who spoke anonymously to Zikoko Citizen about her experience with a lecturer. “For five years, I was harassed and humiliated by my lecturer,” Ada narrates. “He would call me to sit in his office for no reason. Even when I told him I had lectures, he wouldn’t care. On some occasions, he would ask me to enter his car, drive me around town and return me to where he picked me up. I was helpless, and he seemed to enjoy controlling me.”
The power imbalance between Ada and her lecturer would eventually cause her mental health to deteriorate terribly and almost force her to drop out of university. In search of a solution to the constant bullying, she reported her lecturer to the Student Union and the university’s disciplinary panel.
But it didn’t end well for her because instead of bringing her abuser to justice, she was advised to beg him out of respect for his age and position. “If I had known, I would never have reported him. After I reported, I couldn’t get above an F in his courses, no matter how hard I studied. I couldn’t request to see my script and have it remarked either”, she recounts.
After learning that she was at risk of spending an extra year in university, Ada eventually chose silence and begged her lecturer after enduring years of harassment. Only then did she finally get a C grade in his course.
Her luck wasn’t any better in the NYSC camp, where she met a soldier who bullied her till she left the orientation camp. “This soldier forced me to join the parade every day, even after I told him I was a member of the Orientation Broadcasting Service (OBS). He said he didn’t like how I spoke to him and forced me to parade. He would force me to stay back after everybody had left the parade ground, and I wouldn’t be allowed to leave until the lights were out. Most times, I went to bed hungry and woke up to the same torture”. Ada experienced the same power play, but this time, she had learnt not to challenge authority by speaking up.
Perhaps this silence might have “saved” Senator Natasha Akpoti-Uduaghan from another questionable six-month suspension. Or Senator Abdul Ningi, who was suspended for three months because he called out an alleged padding of the 2024 budget.
In Nigeria, the cost of bravery is becoming too heavy to pay. And it’s not just Raye, Ningi and Akpoti-Uduaghan who are paying the price; it’s all of us. In December 2024, Olamide Thomas was arrested for cursing President Tinubu, his children, the Inspector-General of Police, Kayode Egbetokun, and Force Public Relations Officer Muyiwa Adejobi for the pain she was going through. On December 21, 2024, Olumide Ogunsanwo was arrested for similar reasons. Despite President Tinubu’s promise to promote freedom of speech and free press in Nigeria, even journalists like Daniel Ojukwu have become victims of illegal arrests.
2025 should be the year we all collectively agree that the silence culture is killing us. We learn it at home, school, workplaces, NYSC camps and on social media. It has become a culture that urgently needs to be countered. Accountability cannot thrive in a country where people haven’t learnt to challenge authority.
Perhaps it’s time we all took Raye’s advice and collectively challenged bad governance. Nigerian youths make up 70% of the country’s total population, but that number is only as useful as we make it. We could hold over 70% of 2027’s total electoral votes if we wanted. We could vote out bad leaders if we wanted— Anything is possible if we choose bravery instead of silence, no matter the cost.
