Speaking at a well-attended 40th anniversary of the association held at the Alausa Community Mosque Multi-Purpose Hall on Thursday, the Amirah of FOMWAN Lagos, Serifat Oluwatoyin Ajagbe, described the ongoing construction of the healthcare facility at Olugborogan area, Elesan Village, Eti-Osa local government area, as a strategic intervention aimed at bridging gaps in access to primary healthcare services.

She called on philanthropists, corporate organisations and well-meaning Nigerians at home and abroad to partner with the association to ensure the facility became operational soon.

Ajagbe reiterated that beyond healthcare delivery, FOMWAN Lagos remained active in civic education, election observation, gender advocacy, human rights promotion and humanitarian interventions during communal conflicts and flooding.

She added that the association collaborated with government agencies to disseminate public health information and extended welfare support to inmates in correctional centres.

The royal father of the day and chairman of the occasion, Oba Abdulwasiu Omogbolahan Lawal, commended FOMWAN Lagos for four decades of sustained service to faith and humanity.

Reflecting on the milestone, the monarch challenged members to remain faithful to their founding vision.

“At forty, we must ask ourselves: Are we still aligned with the vision of our founders? Are we sincere in our service for the sake of Allah? Are we positively impacting lives and strengthening our communities?,” he said.

He noted that for four decades, FOMWAN Lagos had stood as a pillar of faith, discipline, education, family support and community development, empowering women, supporting widows and advancing healthcare initiatives.

However, he observed that serious challenges remained, including discrimination, economic hardship, domestic violence, depression and health concerns affecting many women.

He described the Primary Healthcare Centre as a timely grassroots response, particularly for riverine and peri-urban communities within Eti-Osa.

The Oniru urged individuals and corporate bodies to support the project, stressing that sustainable development required synergy among faith-based organisations, traditional institutions and government.

He added that women-led initiatives continued to demonstrate their power to drive social transformation.

Delivering the keynote lecture, Professor Khadijah Olaniyan urged Muslim women to see climate change as both a spiritual and civic responsibility.

She said environmental degradation stemmed largely from human excesses and mismanagement, citing indiscriminate waste disposal, particularly poor e-waste management, as a major contributor to contamination and disease.

Advocating the concept of a “Green Mosque” environment, she encouraged mosques and Islamic centres to adopt proper waste management systems, reduce plastic usage and integrate environmental sustainability into faith practice.

Citing the Holy Qur’an and Islamic teachings, she noted that the Holy Prophet encouraged the planting of trees, describing it as a spiritual responsibility that safeguards the environment and mitigates the causes and effects of climate change.

“Planting a tree is not just environmental activism; it is an act of worship that safeguards humanity,” she said.

Olaniyan also identified carbon emissions from cooking systems, vehicular pollution, blockage of drainage channels and open burning of waste as contributors to flooding and climate-related disasters.

She warned that overconsumption driven by covetousness worsened climate challenges and had far-reaching implications for health, education, food security and economic stability.

Climate change, she added, contributed to desertification and rising food costs, affecting availability and affordability.

The professor urged governments at all levels to strengthen environmental management systems and ensure proper supervision of officers responsible for waste management.

She called for stricter enforcement of sanitation regulations and improved oversight of environmental sanitation exercises.

She also advocated greater emphasis on climate education for women and schoolchildren to promote long-term behavioural change.

Olaniyan encouraged women to reduce waste generation, stop open burning, minimise plastic usage and organise events that avoid disposable plastic containers.

“Let us take the lead in mitigating the causes and consequences of climate change,” she charged.

The 40th anniversary theme underscored the importance of wisdom and informed engagement as Muslim women contribute to global conversations on climate resilience, sustainability and community development.

Ajagbe expressed appreciation to religious leaders, traditional rulers, invited guests and members of the public for their support.

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The post FOMWAN @ 40: Lagos chapter calls for climate action, support for project appeared first on Frontpageng.

Some of us have seen this before:  finely-produced videos with cinematic production professional lighting, balanced audio, and dynamic editing from official media teams of major Nigerian Pentecostal churches, expertly deploying the visual vernacular of social media to reposition faith as a culturally relevant spectacle.

Like all other institutions, while churches ought to be free to appropriate new media platforms, I have always feared that somehow; in the pursuit of relevance, a PR misstep is never far away. This fear recently materialised around the New Year celebrations in the social media uproar surrounding posts from Harvesters International Christian Centre. Some of them featured Afrobeat star Tiwa Savage, TikTok personality Peller, and skitmaker Broda Shaggy sharing the stage with Pastor Bolaji Idowu. Within the same period, other posts captured the moment comedian Brain Jotter, during a visit to LOGIC Church, taught Pastor Flourish Peters one of his signature dance steps – a clip enthusiastically circulated by the church’s own media team to promote its services.

These were not accidental glimpses, but curated content. In them, the line between spiritual congregation and digital branding grows conspicuously thin. They are calculated entries in a new and urgent marketplace: the digital attention economy. Nigerian Pentecostalism, an institution historically built on fervent live spectacle and mass persuasion, has become a sophisticated player in this arena. Here, the sacred is repackaged for shareability, and the most potent currency is the clout of a celebrity attendee. This shift represents more than just adopting new tools; it signifies the mediatisation of faith – a profound process where the church’s core operations and values are gradually reshaped by the very logic of the platforms it uses. It appears the Church’s authority is compromising values to please platform algorithm.

At this stage, the critical questions have to be asked: When a church’s overall strategy for growth is tied to an influencer marketing campaign, can it retain its theological anchor? Is a church healthy when it privileges celebrities, ignoring the Biblical teaching of not showing partiality? For sure there is a dilemma involving Christian ethics and the economics of virality.

In order to make sense of this tension, one must interrogate its currency. In our digital marketplace, human attention is the finite, invaluable resource. Every scroll presents a battlefield where churches compete with an infinite stream of entertainment, news, and personal drama. To capture this scarce resource, content must trigger an immediate cognitive spark. A celebrity’s presence is the ultimate spark. It is a pre-validated signal of cultural relevance, cutting through the noise with efficient potency. By strategically hyping celebrity attendance, the church executes a deliberate transaction. It leverages the borrowed social capital of the celebrity – their fame, their follower count, their aura of success – and converts it into its own spiritual and institutional capital. The goal is simple – convert the online buzz into higher attendance numbers, become more attractive to young folks, and, ultimately, increase weekly collections in tithes and offerings that finance expansion.

Nigerian Pentecostalism has certainly learned the vernacular of the digital marketplace. The pressing question now is whether it can retain the vocabulary of the scripture – a vocabulary of grace that is stubbornly indifferent to trending status, of value assigned by divine love rather than follower count, and of a community where the only VIP is the collective body itself.

The transaction is multi-layered. The celebrity offers the church a measurable spike in visibility – a boost in followers, a surge in engagement, a moment trending in the digital conversation. In return, the church provides the celebrity some form of social legitimisation. In the chaotic world of fame, testimonies of redemption, stability, or lifestyle changes become a valuable asset. It enhances a public image, softens perceptions that connects with a critical and morally-conservative audience. The ordinary church member, the target audience for this exchange, gets the plastic experience of proximity to glamour. Their church is validated as a place where cultural elites find solace, transforming their own attendance into a form of associative social capital. My worry: worship for the people in such churches might become mere experiences mediated by the joy of running into their favourite celebrities.

Nigerian churches are merely copying a model made popular elsewhere. Its global prototype is found in churches like Hillsong. The Australian export perfected a formula: a cool, concert-like aesthetic, emotionally resonant music, and a celebrity-friendly culture that made faith feel fashionable. The Nigerian adaptation, however, operates with distinct local intensity. The Nigerian celebrity culture is more immersive, with ordinary Nigerians following stars for mostly aspirational reasons. The combination of Pentecostal zeal and celebrity-worship is a dangerous one, with the potential risk that Nigerian churches mimicking that model will also import the perils. The recent unravelling of Hillsong – prompted by leadership failings, integrity issues and dilution of theology to appeal to youths – offers a dire warning. There is a high risk of an embarrassing crash when the central Christian mission of discipleship, pastoral care, and theological depth are sacrificed for the more popular cultural relevance.

The theological contradiction at the heart of this digital strategy is stark and uncomfortable. It directly challenges the scriptural imperative of radical equality within the body of believers. In what looks like an indictment, the book of James warns: “My brothers and sisters … must not show favouritism … If you show special attention to the man wearing fine clothes and say, “Here’s a good seat for you,” but say to the poor man, “You stand there” or “Sit on the floor by my feet,” have you not discriminated among yourselves …” (James 2:1-4 NIV). Truth be told, the church’s Instagram feed, highlighting the celebrity in the “VIP section” or on the altar, becomes a 21st-century visual enactment of this very bias. The platform’s algorithm, designed to reward what is already popular, inadvertently codifies this spiritual partiality into a digital architecture. The medium, as Marshall McLuhan warned, shapes the message. Here, the message is that visibility equals value and that ordinary church members are just who they are – ordinary.

Philosopher Byung-Chul Han’s critique of the “transparency society,” in which he argues that this age demands everything be made visible, quantifiable, and displayed is instructive here. In this regime, what is most visible is mistakenly conflated with what is most authentic and valuable. By algorithmically privileging the celebrity moment, the church’s digital practice silently catechises its followers. It teaches that worth is correlated with external social validation. The profound but unphotogenic faithfulness of the long-time member, the quiet service of the volunteer, the private struggles and triumphs of the everyday believer recede into digital obscurity. They are poor fuel for the viral engine, and thus, within this new economy, they are assigned a lower value. There is a likelihood that two communities will develop: a more visible, respected celebrity class and the ordinary, unseen congregation.

The way out is not a blackout on social media. Such a move would be both futile and a dereliction of the call to engage the world. The solution lies in practising ethical digital stewardship. This requires a conscious, deliberate uncoupling of evangelism and church growth from the hype cycle. It demands a social media policy defined by intentionality rather than algorithmic chasing.

What might this look like? It means leveraging platforms to amplify substantive teaching, not just event highlights. It involves curating content that spotlights narratives of ordinary transformation – the rehabilitated addict, the sustained marriage, the quiet act of community service. It requires a digital aesthetic that values authenticity over glossy production, which finds beauty in the uncurated moments of communal prayer and service. The most radical, counter-cultural act for a Nigerian Pentecostal church today may be to deliberately decline to post the celebrity photo, and instead, feature the portrait of a faithful, unknown member, with a caption that delves into the depth of their journey. It is to build a digital presence that reflects the topography of the actual kingdom it proclaims – one where the last are first and the greatest is the servant of all.

Nigerian Pentecostalism has certainly learned the vernacular of the digital marketplace. The pressing question now is whether it can retain the vocabulary of the scripture – a vocabulary of grace that is stubbornly indifferent to trending status, of value assigned by divine love rather than follower count, and of a community where the only VIP is the collective body itself.

Dr. Olaniyan, the Convener, Centre for Social Media Research, Nigeria writes about digital culture.

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The post From sacred to viral: The digital economics of celebrities in Nigerian pentecostalism appeared first on Frontpageng.

Somehow Christmas 2025 got me thinking and I have to confess, I agree with those who think the best way to deal with persistent but erroneous narrative is not a counter-argument, but a parallel reality. If that questionable narrative has to do Nigeria as a failed state, then the parallel narrative is even better with a global soundtrack, quantifiable digital footprints, and a tangible economic pulse. While international media focuses on Nigeria’s challenges, I am seeing a deliberate – if uncoordinated attempt at telling a different story beginning to emerge to a distinct, commanding beat. This story is “Detty December,” and before you roll your eyes in disdain, just calm down first.

Forcing its way into the psyche of urban Nigerian dwellers last December, Detty December is beyond just the clubbing and partying even if that appears to be the most visible part of it. It should be understood as a crowd-sourced West African project in “phygital” nation-branding, with the cultural awareness and spending power of The Diaspora at its core. Check this: Spotify is reporting a 55% surge in local streams and a 15% rise globally for Nigerian music during the season – a significant proof of an ecosystem that also drives a significant seasonal uplift in tourism, hospitality, and event revenue.

It is too early to call but we have to wait to see whether this vibrant weeks of festivities, finely mixed with the rhythm of Afrobeats, represents a genuine reclamation of narrative sovereignty or a spectacular distraction engineered by the attention economy. Just consider this: is it just possible that Nigeria can become a destination of choice for tourists and like Morocco and Mauritius begin to maximise the untapped potential of its music, beaches and waterfalls.

The transformation from the traditional chaotic “December rush” to the emerging brand of “Detty December” cannot be separated from the global ascent of Afrobeats. The genre’s conquest of international charts and sold-out arenas have provided the cultural currency and aspirational framework for a season like this – when there is a cultural attraction for the fun-seeking urban youths and The Diaspora. Is there a chance that Afrobeats is not merely the soundtrack but the economic base and thematic core, driving a lucrative calendar of concerts and experiences that stimulate local commerce. If this were to be the case, then Detty December will most likely move beyond just a diaspora homecoming to become a triumphant, performative return to the source. As Spotify’s data highlights, this is an “ecosystem” where physical return can drive digital consumption and spending: “when people return home, they bring their listening with them.” Concerts by A-list artists become the season’s pilgrimage sites, transforming them from mere events into cultural vindications and major economic nodes.

To understand Detty December is to dissect the ecosystem that sustains it – an ecosystem where digital culture and physical experience exist in a seamless, reinforcing loop. This is not merely an event season; it is a digital culture engine. The season seems to be creating new archetypes: the “unpaid storyteller” whose authority is built on live coverage from the front row of a sold-out Afrobeats concert, and the micro-entrepreneur whose fashion or service is marketed through the aesthetic of the genre’s glamour. This digital hustle fuels a real-world economic circuit of vendors, stylists, and promoters. Platform-specific rituals govern participation: Instagram archives the visual capital of designer outfits and packed venues; Twitter/X hosts the live, communal narration and post-event critique; WhatsApp forms the logistical backbone. In this economy, documentation is not secondary to participation; it is a core component of it. The pressure to produce a flawless “Detty December highlight reel” becomes a form of digital labour, where social capital is accrued through likes and shares, training global algorithms to recognise Nigerian aesthetics as a dominant, desirable trend. This is the hustle economy aestheticised, a period where visibility converts directly to cultural and often material currency.

Ultimately, Detty December is more than a party. It is Nigeria’s most compelling experiment in phygital identity.

This engineered reality stands in stark, deliberate contrast to the enduring “single story” of a troubled Nigeria long propagated by much of Western media. The dominant external frame, especially with America going after terrorists on Nigerian soil remains one of crisis – a locus of instability and need. Detty December, with the phygital display of adventure, creativity and purchasing power already resembles a narrative resistance. The limitless power of digital self-publishing, is enabling it to bypass traditional media gatekeepers, allowing participants to unwittingly assert what can be best described as narrative sovereignty. Nigerians, both at home and in The Diaspora, supported by tourists are creating a new, and lively counter-narrative of undiluted fun from live events and tastefully-furnished short let apartments. The visitor, enamoured by this digital allure, is both participant and amplifier, sharing content that further undermines the Western narrative of a troubled Nigeria. This is not activism in the traditional sense, but it is a potent political act: the reclamation of image and imagination.

Regardless, as with phenomena of this type, we have to take a closer look to make sense of it. Does this powerful act of self-representation mask deeper fissures? The logic of the “spectacle” suggests that social relations can become mediated by images of consumption. The performative, consumerist heart of Detty December can inadvertently reinforce class divides, equating cultural participation with the ability to spend. The “Detty December, Broke January” meme is not just a joke; it is a tacit acknowledgment of the economic strain this curated joy can impose. Furthermore, the very digital economy that empowers this narrative – the monetisation of attention and engagement – creates its own perverse incentives. It risks privileging the aesthetics of prosperity over the harder, slower work of addressing the systemic issues that the Western media fixates upon, however reductively. The danger is a public sphere where the performance of well-being crowds out substantive discourse on its foundations.

The contestation, therefore, lies in whether Detty December is a destination or a pathway. Are we seeing a temporary, phygital simulation of a Nigeria where things work? Or is it a timely reminder of the huge cultural, entrepreneurial, and organisational capital that could be channelled into broader national branding? From experience, online campaigns do not produce real change on their own. Usually, there has to be more in sustained strategy and commitment by those in authority. If nothing, Detty December at least showcases a Nigeria capable of world-class logistics, creative genius, and powerful soft power projection. The haunting question is whether this energy can be harnessed beyond the calendar of revelry.

Ultimately, Detty December is more than a party. It is Nigeria’s most compelling experiment in phygital identity. It demonstrates an unparalleled ability to engineer a seasonal digital economy, wage narrative warfare with the weapon of joy, and develop indigenous rituals native to the social media age. It forces a recalibration of perspective, compelling the world to engage with the country on its own festive, complex terms. However, its true legacy will be determined not by the brilliance of any single December, but by what its architects – the content creators, event planners, diaspora returnees, and ordinary citizens performing their pride – choose to build with the confidence and capability it proves they possess. The spectacle has been mastered. The next act awaits its script.

*Dr. Olaniyan, the Convener, Centre for Social Media Research, Nigeria writes about digital culture

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The suspension and eventual sacking of Ezra Olubi from Paystack, a company where he was Chief Technology Officer and co-founder, over resurfaced tweets from a decade ago, is not surprising. If you understand social media and its affordances, then you know this is predestined reckoning. What we have just witnessed is the inevitable clash between the ephemeral, edgy “cruise” of the early Nigerian Twitter and the permanent, high-stakes record demanded of leaders in the global digital economy. As always, I have to state from the outset, I have no interest in interrogating the specific content of those old tweets. People have already done that as we have seen in two camps – of outrage and defence. Instead, I am more interested in the implication of the digital memory, the evolving moral economy of our online lives, and the impossible burden of maintaining a consistent identity across a decade of profound personal and professional change.

Until his fall from grace, Ezra Olubi was a certified icon of the Nigerian tech ecosystem. As co-founder of Paystack, his was one of the faces of a rare success story – a young man fronting a local startup that attracted global acquisition and became a beacon of possibility. It is why I find his fall all the more dramatic. The old tweets, said to contain homophobic and other inflammatory language, created a storm that eventually forced Paystack to act. The statement from the company’s spokesperson was a classic example in corporate crisis communication: “These comments are unacceptable and inconsistent with our values… Ezra is currently not involved with the running of Paystack…” The swiftness of the action was as telling as the action itself.

To understand the fury, you have to understand context collapse, a concept from digital sociology, which describes how social media flattens multiple audiences into a single context. Olubi’s tweets, possibly made for a small, closed group of most likely like-minded audience on the edgy, informal platform that was Nigerian Twitter in the early 2010s, were never intended for the audience of 2025. While it might not have mattered when he was tweeting them, today’s audience of a global workforce, international investors, LGBTQ+ colleagues, and a diverse user base dramatically changes the context. Combined, this mixed audience have dragged a “backstage” performance onto the “front stage” of Olubi’s professional life. In effect, he was dragged before a jury that did not exist when the crime was committed, but which must judge him regardless.

Expectedly, this fall from grace has elicited a familiar social media reaction, revealing a nation deeply conflicted. On one side were those demanding accountability. For this group, power necessitates responsibility. If you are an Exec in a place like Paystack, attracting foreign investment the way that company is doing, you have to submit yourself to higher standards, they seem to argue. For this set of people, past rhetoric or bigotry expressed even while at the entry-level of a career would signal major character flaws that should have been flagged much earlier. The other side of the arguments I have seen online appears more forgiving; some of them framing the anger at the resurfaced tweet as witch-hunting a successful young man, who probably was tweeting for clout. They seem to believe that human fallibility and personal evolution should be permissible for talented young men. From what I see online, both sides may differ in their reactions but they both say the same thing – the Internet does not forget.

It’s a phrase we have used casually but it’s deep but its mechanics are worth examining. The internet doesn’t forget because of the fundamental architecture of networked publics, a concept scholar Dana Boyd brilliantly breaks down into four key properties. Olubi’s case is a textbook illustration of each. First, online expressions are persistent; they are automatically recorded and archived. Spoken words tend to have a limited shelf life but digital contents like a tweet, lasts longer because it is a piece of data that is lodged on a server. Second, digital content is replicable; meaning it can be duplicated perfectly. Note the fact that screenshots of those tweets have been saved and are being shared online, whether or not the originals were deleted. Third, this content is scalable; its visibility going ‘out of control’ once people became interested in it. So, what might have been created for a small, closed group has the potential to ‘go viral’ ten years down the line, producing unintended consequences. Finally, and perhaps most crucially, it is searchable. Digital content of this type – in networked publics – can be accessed through search, allowing anyone to uncover inappropriate pieces of content produced and shared in moments of impropriety.

Your digital footprint is your permanent CV. The first step towards any position of leadership in the 21st century must be a rigorous, pre-emptive audit of your own digital history.

Olubi’s past became exactly that – a “digital ghost,” an archived, decontextualised version of his former self, empowered by persistence, replication, scalability, and searchability, that could be summoned at any moment to haunt his present success. This saga underscores the complete erosion of the line between public and private life for those in the digital spotlight. Using the sociological lens of dramaturgy, we can see life as a performance with a “front stage” for the public and a “back stage” for private moments. For a founder like Olubi, the “founder as brand” model means the front stage has completely consumed the back stage. His personal identity is inextricably linked to Paystack’s corporate identity, its valuation, and its reputation. There is no longer a “private” Twitter account for a figure of his stature; every digital utterance, past or present, is a corporate communication.

The hard lessons from this are stark, and they extend far beyond a single individual. For individuals, especially ambitious young professionals, the lesson is the non-negotiable need for digital prudence. The idea that one can be reckless online and then clean up their act upon achieving success is dangerously obsolete. Your digital footprint is your permanent CV. The first step towards any position of leadership in the 21st century must be a rigorous, pre-emptive audit of your own digital history. Assume everything will be found.

For companies and startups, this is a glaring lesson in “skeleton-in-the-closet” due diligence. In an ecosystem where a founder’s story is a core asset, investors and boards can no longer afford to ignore the digital pasts of their key figures. A crisis management plan is useless if it is drafted after the damning tweets have already gone viral. Proactive investigation and preparation are now as crucial as financial audits.

Yet, the most profound challenge is for society itself. The Olubi incident forces us to confront our own role in this ecosystem of digital shame. The social media backlash, often dismissed as “cancel culture,” can also be seen as a form of decentralised social regulation – a way for the public to enforce new, more progressive norms where formal institutions are slow to act. However, a warning – this imperfect model forces the question: How do we collectively define a genuine the digital age? Do we forgive once tweets are deleted? Does the cancel culture permit growth and forgiveness, or does it merely enforce a phantom kind of digital puritanism through permanent punishment? When does accountability become a futile attempt to judge the past by the standards of the present?

In the final analysis, the forced exit of Ezra Olubi is a canonical case study for Nigeria’s digital coming of age. It is timely alert that the journey from anonymous netizen to public figure is a one-way street. Once on this track, it is near impossible to retreat but as you make progress, you go with the dispiriting feeling that it is with the shadow of your digital past following closely behind. Just one fear though. Is there a chance that as digital ecosystem evolves, we can build a system that does not just ‘delete’ flawed individuals but is able to hold people accountable without ruling out the opportunity to change. As a people we have to find a way to use the unforgiving, permanent memory of the server to ensure that young men with ‘dark minds’ get help early before they have the chance to destroy themselves and others around them. And that is because we agree that in the searchable past, we all have something to lose.

Dr. Olaniyan, the Convener, Centre for Social Media Research, Nigeria writes about digital culture

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The post The unforgiving server: Ezra Olubi, Paystack, and the price of a searchable past appeared first on Frontpageng.

It seems the line between robust political speech and criminal incitement is not just thinning in Nigeria; it is being actively redrawn by the state in real-time, with each new lawsuit and social media post. We have become accustomed to the performative outrage of micro-celebrities and the fleeting scandals that define our digital discourse. The legal battle, which pits activist Omoyele Sowore against the Nigerian state is no joke for it goes beyond the ‘catching cruise’ format of social media content. It comes as no surprise at all, this being another one in a long, tortuous history of state-sponsored attempts to limit free speech in one form or another. This kind of frosty government-press relations dates back to the dark days of the Sedition Ordinance of 1909; includes the notorious Decree 4 of 1984 and unfortunately it seems, the Cybercrimes Act of 2024. So, once the Department of State Services (DSS) decided to initiate a five-count charge against Sowore, we have to consider it as another twist in an old tactic, one that suggests that the state remains in conflict with the very idea of a critical citizenry, twenty-six years after a return to democratic rule.

To view the Sowore case in isolation is to suffer from historical amnesia. We need only glance back through the annals of Nigerian governance to see a consistent thread. The colonial administration, often wrongly remembered for its “liberalism,” quickly moved to control the nascent press. The 1903 Newspaper Ordinance forced registration, the 1917 law demanded a hefty bond against “seditious” publications, and the 1909 Seditious Offences Ordinance specifically targeted criticism of the government. As scholars note, the press functioned only within whatever rights the colonial laws made possible. This appears to have set the tone for an unfortunate principle of the state being the one that can ultimately determine what is permissible as free speech.

Sadly, it seems, the illogical nature of that foundational principle survived the colonial rule, with succeeding administration appropriating it in some form or another as it fits their whims. The First Republic saw the press weaponised along ethnic and political lines, with regional governments and political parties establishing newspapers as mouthpieces to attack opponents. The outcome?  A structure of ethnic ownership where journalists were “not expected to enjoy much opportunity for individual self-expression” and “functioned within the narrow confines of official interests.”

But the true dark age for free speech arrived with the military. Regime after regime promulgated decrees designed to silence dissent: Aguiyi Ironsi’s Defamation Decree, Muhammadu Buhari’s infamous Decree 4, and the brutal enforcement under Buhari, Babangida, and Abacha are clear examples. Their goal was never to win in court but to deliver a chilling message. The proscription of newspapers, seizure of editions and imprisonment of journalists like Tunde Thompson and Nduka Irabor were all part of the message. That brutal message did not kill free speech but rather produced a collective reaction by the most vocal section of the media whose “guerrilla journalism” of the 1990s saw the likes of Tell, The News, and Tempo operating from hideouts, their hit-and-run tactics probably a perfect response to repressive administrations. They saw themselves not as neutral observers but as activists in a struggle to reclaim Nigeria, a mindset for which they were often criticised but which was forged in the fire of state persecution.

The return to democracy in 1999 promised a new dawn, but the tools of repression were merely refurbished, not discarded. The state’s strategy evolved from military decrees to sophisticated legal instruments like the Cybercrimes Act. Until the return to democratic rule, the print media and electronic media had been primary targets but now social media platforms became the focal point of attempts to moderate communications of the political type. If we take a critical look at the DSS’s court case against Sowore, it seems the intention is the same – limit dissenting voices as much as possible.

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This pattern is not uniquely Nigerian; it is part of a global playbook where powerful figures weaponise the legal system to punish criticism. The threat by former U.S. President Donald Trump to sue the New York Times for $15 billion, while different in context, employs the same strategy: using the immense weight and cost of the judiciary to deliver a sobering message. The goal is processual punishment—to drain the target’s resources and create a spectre of legal retribution that hangs over every potential critic. Sowore’s case, with its multiple counts and invocation of both cyber and criminal law, fits this pattern perfectly, demonstrating how legal systems worldwide are being co-opted for political silencing.

The ghosts of Jackson, Ironsi, and some of the guerrilla journalists are watching to see which choice we make.

In the current case, the state argues that Sowore’s posts, which labelled President Bola Tinubu a “criminal,” are knowingly false and published with the intent to cause a “breakdown of law and order.” This charge hinges on a dangerously subjective logic: that the Nigerian public is an irrational mob, perpetually on the verge of violence, requiring protection from its own emotions by the wise hand of the security apparatus. It is a logic that presumes the state to be the sole arbiter of truth.

Sowore’s counter-suit, framing the state’s action as “unconstitutional censorship,” positions him in a long lineage of Nigerian resistance. He is not just defending his own tweets; he is channelling the spirit of John Payne Jackson, whose Lagos Weekly Record in the 1890s “always hung on the edge of sedition,” and the guerrilla journalists of the 90s who operated from hidden presses. The case against the DSS is anchored on Section 39 of the Nigerian Constitution, which guarantees the right to freedom of expression, won through decades of resisting state-sponsored attempts to control political communication under the colonial and military rulers.

Notwithstanding, the issues are not as straightforward as a critical look at both sides of the argument shows complexities. For instance, even if the government’s case, is dressed in legalism, it is clearly fraught with dangerous subjectivity. How, if we may ask, is it possible to prove a claim about corruption, knowing that this is often shrouded in secrecy and open to different interpretation? The tactic makes it look like a fine attempt to weaponise the law, a hallmark of digital authoritarianism.

Yet, Sowore’s argument, while philosophically compelling, also brushes against the complex realities of absolute free speech. His choice of language sits in a grey zone between robust criticism and personal defamation. This is not to legitimise the state’s criminal charges, which are disproportionate and dangerous, but to acknowledge that the defence of free speech is most powerful when it acknowledges its own complexities. The appropriate arena for such a dispute should be civil libel law, not the Criminal Code wielded by secret police.

This case also forces a critical examination of the role of social media platforms, the new battleground in this old war. Sowore’s lawsuit rightly argues that Meta and X must not become “tools of repression.” However, this charge clashes with the messy reality of platform governance. These are global corporations, not democratic governments. Their “neutrality” is a myth; their decisions are calculations based on a maze of conflicting national laws, commercial interests, and political pressure. Their refusal to delete Sowore’s account is a positive outcome, but it is likely a business decision, not a principled stand for Nigerian democracy. To expect otherwise is to misunderstand their fundamental nature as profit-driven entities in the attention economy.

Outside the legal battle, there is a far more worrying thing. We have to ask; Is there a chance that we are seeing the onset of something more profound? We know that social media has the tendency to create eco-chambers and rewards outrage and emotionalism over reasoned debate. However, the far more fundamental change has to be the affective polarisation of political discourse, which shapes identities based on animosity and forces people to replace dialogue with diatribe.

There can be only one outcome in an environment like this: The deliberative, rigorous debate of issues that should be the foundation of a healthy democracy will be more difficult to achieve because it is crowded out by inflammatory language by government and activist alike. The DSS’s case against Sowore does nothing to ease the polarisation; it actually risks inflaming the tension by legitimising a cycle of action and reaction where the only casualty is truth itself.

If we take a look at our most recent history, what do we make of this high-stakes legal battle? The outcome will set a precedent. A victory for the state would embolden further censorship, signalling that any criticism of power can be criminalised under the nebulous guise of “national security” or “public order.” It would affirm that Nigeria’s democratic experiment remains fragile, perpetually vulnerable to the authoritarian instincts of its rulers.

The ideal resolution would not be a victory for unrestrained speech, but for a proportional and rights-based legal framework. This requires:

• An unequivocal judicial confirmation of Section 39 of the Constitution as the principal law of the land when it comes to free speech; which cannot be abridged in any way by any security outfit on a whim.
• An urgent re-evaluation and repeal of other pieces of legislation like those on cybercrime and criminal defamation that can be easily abused by those in power.
• An immediate national conversation around where to draw the line between free and harmful speech; the aim of which is to arrive at a consensus outside the influence of state coercion.

Clearly, it would be wrong to personalise this legal battle between Sowore and the DSS. It looks more like a proxy war for the soul of Nigeria’s digital future; a future caught between its own repressive history and a global wave of modernised authoritarianism. The question is whether our collective public sphere can accommodate open, if rigorous, deliberation, or a mediated space for predominantly state-approved thoughts. To think this is a choice between order and chaos is not only simplistic but plain dishonest.

This looks every inch like a choice between a democratic environment where people can think for themselves and an authoritarian environment that fears exactly that. The ghosts of Jackson, Ironsi, and some of the guerrilla journalists are watching to see which choice we make.

The post Digital dissent and state power: The Sowore case and the battle for Nigeria’s digital soul appeared first on Frontpageng.

TikTok has never been my thing. I avoid that platform not because some of the viral videos have no cultural value but because the fleeting nature of most of them, somehow reminds me of the generally annoying dumbed-down standard of social media content. Notwithstanding, there are times when I am forced to pay attention, as it happened recently with the now infamous video of Habeeb Hamzat, otherwise known as Peller, in which he engaged some university graduates in what looked like a job interview. In those moments, what you tend to see is short-form videos, which highlight a set of long-simmering societal tensions.

In the video, which is published on his official YouTube Channel and shared on other social media accounts, the unschooled Peller, is seen conducting what looked like job interviews for the role of a videographer on his content team. It is still difficult for me to accept that the exercise was anything other than another piece of content created just for the viewing numbers. We very well could have enjoyed it for its comedic flourish, except for the suggestion that some of the so-called applicants have Master’s degrees and even PhDs.

This troubling episode – of PhD holders applying to be videographers under a TikToker – mirrors what Pierre Bourdieu refers to as a clash between cultural and economic capital. In the ‘old’ Nigeria, academic degrees used to command a symbolic power with certificates guaranteeing a clear path to status, jobs, and stability. However, this episode suggests a new order, with social visibility and economic mastery in the attention economy as the basis of new power. Bourdieu’s illustration is useful and helps us to make sense of the viral video not as satire or anomaly, but as more profound conflict between two systems of value: one credentialed, the other algorithmic.

Typically, the social media space went crazy, the episode being interpreted by some as a tragicomic illustration of the state of graduate underemployment in the country. For others, it was yet another indication of how the attention economy is raising micro celebrities like Peller with immense clout and cash that calls to question the value of formal education. However, of far more importance, it seems to me, if we ignore the flurry of memes and hot takes, is the fundamental issue of the shift in the structure of opportunity, legitimacy, and labour in Nigeria’s increasingly digitised society. I allowed the excitement to cool off before writing this so it won’t be misinterpreted as an indictment of the content creator or a lament for the unemployed graduates who appeared in that video. Both sides have their reasons for featuring and we don’t need them to be involved in the sort of rigorous debate of the true meaning of that video. Instead, this is focused interpreting the consistently sinister attempt at devaluing the benefits of formal education at a time when digital hustlers appear to be on the ascendancy as well as the troubling but revealing disconnect between traditional education and the demands of the attention economy.

Were we to examine this at face value, we might fall into the usual trap of trivialising the fact that university graduates – some of them with advanced degrees – applied for the role of a videographer advertised by a 19-year-old influencer. Yes, it might sound absurd and probably humiliating to think that this is what those fellows could do with their university degrees, but if we step back and remind ourselves that Nigeria’s job market is saturated and that there is some misalignment between education and employment, maybe, just maybe, it becomes more bearable. Those of us who have been privileged to be involved in recruitment processes have long worried that degrees from a lot of Nigerian universities limit social mobility and no longer guarantees financial stability. While we worried about other things, the quality of education was precariously eroded and as quality depreciated, what was once seen as great equaliser became the butt of jokes by content producers.

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There is no intention here to join those who mock formal education but it is important to highlight the increasingly dangerous trend of assigning worth, which favours money over and above every other thing including degrees. My generation was raised to believe that success mostly requires some reasonable level of academic achievement: nursery school, primary, WAEC, university, and as we are witnessing, perhaps a Master’s degree abroad for those who are privileged. The long-held belief is that a strong academic base such as this guarantees a ‘respectable job.’ However, and as Peller’s ‘drama’ suggests, the attention economy is rubbishing the entire value chain; with unschooled people like him now better-placed to achieve through content creation the kind of good life that some PhD holders can only  dream of.

Anyhow we look at it, it seems there is a legitimacy crisis hanging over formal education in Nigeria and when university graduates are willing to take roles as videographers from unschooled TikTok stars, we can no longer focus on the economic desperation that might have motivated them but rather turn attention to how and when the platform of value shifted. Only a fool will disagree that knowledge is valueless and that graduates can be dragged in the way that Peller’s video suggests but sadly in the attention economy, the wrong kind of knowledge is rewarded by algorithms.

Peller, whose TikTok has over 11 million followers and whose videos have racked up 465 million likes, is typical of the new champions of the attention economy, a digital tycoon who have mastered the monetisation of video content. Their success has so captured the imagination of Nigerians, that they are inspiring other youngsters who aspire to nothing else but to enter the content creation space. Unlike most Nigerian university graduates and young professionals trying to build a career Peller and his co-travellers have nothing to do with academic qualifications but rather in the ‘new gold’  – raw attention, which feeds on monetisable engagement. These folks understand and speak the language of this new economy and consistently give the platforms what they want – viral content that expertly mixes spontaneity and strategic branding to ensure the pay checks keep coming.

In the final analysis, Peller’s engagement with those graduates was not just content – it was commentary, something like a slice of a society in transition. It is like we are forced to stand before a mirror to see our collective disappointment that education is failing to deliver the good life again and probably the early signs that the once accepted assessment of legitimacy is dead.

I am aware that the default reaction to Peller and others is to sneer and dismissing them as unserious school dropouts who went into content creation because they lack the brains for academic rigour but this would be ignoring the obvious. Making millions consistently from social media platforms demand some reasonable level of intentionality and skill to build a digital persona that adds up into the sort of influence that helps them to ‘print money’ on a consistently sustainable level. Observe the ruthless awareness of and shrewd appropriation of algorithm, brand collaborations, digital monetisation strategies, and you get the feeling that these folks aren’t just lucky. They have simply embraced the unconventional but profitable ways to use clout in the attention economy in ways that are making them become the envy of those who have gone through formal education but fail to understand the changing dynamics of this new environment.

It is why Peller’s moment with the graduates, while it looked like a job interview, should be seen as not just a publicity stunt but a performance both literally and figuratively. The episode should be seen as a comic commentary on power, prestige, and the arbitrariness of merit in the age of the attention economy. In one stroke, both literally and figuratively, the episode represents a sort of role reversal – the unschooled employer presiding over a job interview involving jobless university graduates. Here is the dispiriting thing in it: what if, as we suspect it just might, the attention economy becomes the only thing there is and the future belongs to the unschooled content creator with the mastery of algorithms and monetisation and not to university graduates with no digital skills? Scary, right?

This forces the question: Why does it seem as if the highly educated Nigerians are ill-prepared for the opportunities presented by the new dynamics of the attention economy? Is there something wrong with what Nigerian universities teach or even, more worrying, what they are not teaching? I mean, how else do you explain the choice of Nigerian universities to remain stubbornly attached to outdated models of teaching and research? Lacking the modern infrastructure to professionally prepare students for life in a rapidly digitising global economy, is there any wonder that the graduates they are producing are lacking some of the skills needed in the marketplace?

As a lot of Nigerian graduates – even from media programmes – are passing out with minimal exposure to digital storytelling, content production, personal branding, or platform strategy, young folks are disadvantaged in the changed environment of the marketplace. There is the additional shortcoming of a defeatist mindset that leads many graduates to believe that their degrees alone confer entitlement to jobs at a time when the biggest rewards go to those who master how to command and retain attention.

So, what do we make of the Peller vide? One, it would be irresponsible to suggest that degrees are now worthless and that unless you are a content creator, you cannot enjoy the good life. However, Nigerian education ought to acknowledge and start paying attention to the relationship between formal education and digital opportunities. To continue to treat the two as mutually exclusive is to put it mildly, criminal. Two, there is no need pretending. Nigerian universities must evolve both in curriculum and in orientation; to embrace a more pragmatic approach that allows the analytical rigour of academia to use the best of the agile creativity of the digital world. Three, content creators like Peller, and or their handlers should acknowledge and interrogate their own influence as clout comes with certain responsibilities. That piece of content might have gone viral and made money for the young man but the impact could be more significant in what it suggests: that Nigeria is a country where university education does not guarantee power, and where the clout and social media influence is fast becoming the most valuable form of capital.

In the final analysis, Peller’s engagement with those graduates was not just content – it was commentary, something like a slice of a society in transition. It is like we are forced to stand before a mirror to see our collective disappointment that education is failing to deliver the good life again and probably the early signs that the once accepted assessment of legitimacy is dead.

And maybe that is what unsettles us the most. Not that a TikTok star held interviews with PhD holders, but that we instinctively knew he could.

Dr. Olaniyan is the Convener, Centre for Social Media Research, Lagos.

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The question many people are now asking is this: “Can Gospel thrive online without compromising its soul and Spirit? It depends on the school of thought to which one belongs. When the Bible says: “In the beginning was the word, the word was with God and God was the Word.” people think it is only strictly a theological framework, not knowing that it has an all-embracing phenomenon pointing to the truth that Christ is in the heart of every matter, including technology.  The online phenomena have been in the Bible for the discerning minds. The problem of the church is that she appears not to be ready to outlive many of her world of arbitrariness.  Before the marriage between media and technology shrank distance and brought the world into a global community, the WORD had done so million years before the tongues came babbling on the Tower of craving autonomy from God (The WORD).

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Most Christians are yet to come to the realisation of the fact that the COVID-19 (as it happened, also to the epidemics of 1910-1920s even as nipped in the bud by the divine intervention of Mose Orimolade in Lagos) is a Gospel which was masked up in the loin of Revival.  Both the convergence of the teachings of Christ Jesus and the theology of the woman of Samaria at the well of the future, including the message of Christ Jesus in John 17:21 (That they all may be one; as thou Father, art in me and I in thee, that they also may be one in us: that the world may believe that thou hast sent me) are all prophesying about the NOW.

The problem with us is that Christians think the Bible is exclusively for the four walls within the church.  Where are the walls today?

The problem with us is that Christians think the Bible is exclusively for the four walls within the church.  Where are the walls today? Was Christ Jesus crucified between two candles and not between two thieves at Golgotha? (Apology to Prophet Ade Martins). Check the word, Gospel, and you see oxymoron in action. The earlier we study deep, the better for us and this means getting off from our “Sakara” Gospel of prosperity and reveal how Christ Jesus is truly in the heart of His matter.

In the golden book of George Maloney christened “LISTEN, PROPHET”, he wrote: Christ, as at the tomb of Lazarus, still stands at the tomb of not only us individually, but of the whole world. The whole world is in that tomb, groaning in travail. He is saying continually, “I am the Resurrection and the Life… He challenges all of us to put away fears and timidity as though we cannot encounter God in the heart of His very matter.”

The message is particularly for the Modern Prophet, not for the mere dreamers or escape artists who, in the trenchant words of Diedrich Bonhoeffer, “kick their heels in the face of impending difficulties in life and fly off to that upper region in the heavens where all is peaceful harmony, the home of cowards who make a mockery of true Christianity by their false attitudes to the present world.”

Just thinking aloud.

The post Mockery of true Christianity, By Olalere Fagbola appeared first on Frontpageng.

The Nigerian media has a reputation for being rather ‘loud.’ Historically acknowledged as one of the most robust in Africa, the media has never shied away from any form of discourse no matter how controversial. The likes of West Africa Pilot, Lagos Weekly Record, The News and Tell were renowned for critical and investigative reporting that unsettled administrations. In fact, such was the fearless and controversial nature of the editorial approach of the Lagos Weekly Record, that John Jackson, who founded the paper in 1890 was said to have favoured ‘pungent criticism, expressed in lengthy editorials,” which bordered on the “edge of sedition”.

That’s a feature that seems to appeal to Nigerians of my generation, the most open-minded of whom grew up either waking up early to listen to the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) or stopping by at newsstands to read major newspapers for a token. In those days, you would almost certainly know someone who could afford to buy newspapers and through whom you had access to copies that you then spent time reading. Such was the richness of the content in those days that I saved up to be able to buy the Newswatch or the Guardian to be able to read the likes of Dele Giwa, Ray Ekpu, Yakubu Mohammed and Olatunji Dare.

That tradition – of critical and sometimes, adversarial and controversial journalism – might be in retreat but the Nigerian media remains as boisterous as ever. Or it seems. Digital transformation has limited the impact of some legacy newspapers, with those who failed to embrace new media formats being the worst hit. The emergence of digital-born newspapers like Sahara Reporters, Premium Times and The Cable with the courage for aggressive reporting of the corporate and political elite has shaken up the industry in no small measure, the result being that new media formats are appealing to and serving Nigeria’s youthful population more effectively. The online traffic and digital communities commanded by these newspapers in their relatively short history might still be slightly behind those of some legacy organisations like the Punch and Vanguard; but taken together, the progress made by the digital-born newspapers confirm what we already know – that Nigerians are consuming media in new ways.

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In a country where over 75 per cent of the population is under 35, the appetite for either print editions of newspaper or the kind of stories and aggressive news reporting that established  West Africa Pilot, Lagos Weekly Record, The News and Tell may have been lost but not the interest in staying up-to-date with information, albeit of a different kind. If the historical appeal of the rigorous debates and long-form articles of the political nature in the media ended with the West Africa Pilot, Lagos Weekly Record, The News and Tell, another form  of truly engaging media content driven by storytelling is finding a home in podcasting. Thanks to the noise surrounding Nedu and The Honest Bunch Podcast, we at least know that young Nigerians can stay engaged for reasonable time if their kind of content is being served. It is difficult to ignore the embarrassing personal details around Nedu, his estranged friend, Martins Vincent Otse, a.k.a VeryDarMman, but I make an appeal. Please ignore those for the moment as we try to deal with the more serious issues here.

The concerns about the content and responsibility aside, my generation is right to worry about the long-time impact on a Gen Z that looks like it lacks the media literacy and a well-developed ability to critically filter what they hear from podcasts promoted by clout chasers.

Podcasting emerged from the shadows of radio in the early 2000s, aided by new technologies and digital cultures including MP3 players, free or low-cost audio production software, blogging. What started as amateur radio that allows producers to create content with some level of autonomy than what traditional broadcasting allowed expanded rapidly as listeners embraced the freedom to listen to content that suits their preferences. In Nigerian, that format has benefited from three major factors, two of which  help to explain why the recent noise around Nedu and his friends is symptomatic of more worrying issues about the media consumption patterns of Nigerian youths.

First, the telecoms reform under President Olusegun meant more Nigerians had access to relatively more affordable data and smartphones. As Nigeria’s telecoms reform was mobile-driven, more people started to consume media on the go. That flexibility and accessibility, allowing users to listen at their convenience was sure to benefit podcasting in the long run; radio being more structured around programming and scheduling, and therefore more restrictive.

Second, when it started a decade and a half ago, Nigerian podcasts used to be drab not because the producers were less creative. Today’s podcast producers are benefiting from a global trend of interests in video and the surging interest of Gen Zs in media consumption. On the one hand, the short video clips from episodes are being used as spreadable media across platforms like Twitter, TikTok, and Instagram, to drive traffic to YouTube. On the other, the increasing audience engagement on YouTube and the revenue from monetisation on the platform is allowing podcast producers to invest more in studio and equipment that improves quality.

Three, podcasting has also grown on the back of the relatively lower entry barriers than what would have been necessary in broadcasting, allowing content creators and producers to cater to a young audience eager for uncensored conversations. Looking at the lower entry barrier, the increasing participation of micro-celebrities in podcasting – something we began to notice just a few years back – makes sense, especially given their penchant for clout chasing.

As we have seen with the digital-born newspapers, the relatively lower entry barriers and the attraction of Gen Z to the format could either be a blessing or a curse. The obvious arguments for or against the podcasting we are now being served borders on their tendency to push the ethical boundaries of what is acceptable as good journalism. If podcasting had gone under radar in its nascent history, the most recent controversies around some of the more popular ones are suddenly forcing us to sit up and ask questions about content, responsibility, and their impact.

While many podcasts serve as educational and cultural platforms, and could therefore be used to reach a generation that lacks the discipline to maintain reasonable focus on anything serious, we have enough reasons to be worried. It is all right for podcasters to allow bold and personal stories but sensationalism should have its limits, even in a segment that is still a tiny part of the media ecosystem. Given the potential of this format to become a cultural influence especially among the young folks, we have to ask whether those viral moments designed to  shock serve any purpose aside from  boosting ratings. As we have seen with some recent developments, ‘sensational podcasting’ can produce grave consequences.

One example is the reported death of one guest on actress Biola Adebayo’s podcast, “Talk to B.” The young woman who appeared on that programme as expected on a podcast shared personal struggles, including unconventional sexual experiences but faced a backlash from a digital mob that hounded her until she was driven to commit suicide. Her experience – never mind the fact that the producers later claimed she faked her death – should be a reminder to content producers that podcasting goes beyond the ratings and the monetisation. In this case, would it have changed anything if the producer had the sense to arrange professional counselling for the guest? We may not know the answer but the point is – a young life ended after being hosted on a podcast where she allowed herself to be vulnerable. Nedu’s ouster from “The Honest Bunch Podcast” after comedian Deeone appeared as a guest and made those wild claims about the sexual orientation of VeryDarkMan, may yet cost him more than his job. The ‘noise’ from that edition and the embarrassment attached have hurt his reputation but the impact on his mental strength could be far more damaging.

The two examples raise an obvious question: as podcasting increases in popularity, where do we draw the line between open dialogue and harmful content. True, digital culture thrives on controversy and clout chasers are using the well-tested format to drive traffic to their podcasts. The danger as usual is that the young folks who are the most active listeners are not passive media consumers. The concerns about the content and responsibility aside, my generation is right to worry about the long-time impact on a Gen Z that looks like it lacks the media literacy and a well-developed ability to critically filter what they hear from podcasts promoted by clout chasers. Whether we can leave the responsibility of maintaining quality, credibility, and ethical standards remains in the hands of content creators driven solely by the monetisation craze is open to question but we definitely have to find a way to limit avoidable deaths like that of the guest on Biola Adebayo’s podcast.

*Dr. Olaniyan is the Convener, Centre for Social Media Research, Lagos.

The post Mic check or mic wreck? Podcasts and the unsettling culture of chaos appeared first on Frontpageng.

SPMs are floating facilities used for loading liquids and gas offshore and were first fabricated locally for the Bonga floating, production, storage and offloading, FPSO, vessel of Shell Nigeria Exploration and Production Company Ltd., SNEPCo, in 2006 by Dorman Long Engineering Limited with headquarters in Lagos.

SPDC awarded the contract for the two buoys to the indigenous company, PSL, which is delivering the facilities in line with world-class quality standards as attested to by the International Registrar and Classification Society in Norway, Det Norske Veritas, DNV, and a team of resident engineers from IMODCO, PSL’s technical partner in France.

The buoys will be installed offshore at Bonny and Forcados terminals this year.

“Awarding such a technically complex scope to a local contractor highlights SPDC’s commitment to local content development,” NCDMB Executive Secretary Felix Omatsola Ogbe said when he toured the project site at the Julius Berger Port in Warri recently.

“I want to especially commend SPDC for believing in the indigenous contractor. I commend the contractor for delivering the project in good time without any injury and the community for their support.”

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SPDC Director, and General Manager, Safety and Environment, Conventional Oil and Gas, Shell Companies in Nigeria, Mrs. Elozino Olaniyan, said: “The project reiterates Shell’s commitment to the economic development of Nigeria and improving the capacity of local vendors.”

SPDC’s Domestic Gas, Forcados Yokri Integrated Project and Terminals Project Manager, Chris Ubuane, said: “We’re pleased that PSL will deliver the first buoy within a year with a team of over 90% of Nigerians performing various tasks including project management, piping and structural fabrications, scaffolding, welding, fitting, blasting and painting. SPDC will continue to work with PSL to grow their capability in buoy fabrication and maintenance.”

Managing Director, Prime Sources Limited, Francis Anyakwo, thanked SPDC for the opportunity to “undertake this complex project,” and NCDMB for the support which has enabled the company to transform to a major subsea contractor in the oil and gas industry.

Secretary of the Ijaw Kingdom Traditional Council, Chief Anthony Jolomi, and representative of the Itsekiri Kingdom, Dr. Omiwere-Ete George Boyo, also expressed gratitude to SPDC for the project, pledging that the community would continue to provide an enabling environment for businesses to thrive in the area.

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While the match ended 2-1 in favour of the visiting Aba side, the after-match situation was very chaotic as the fans of the home side went berserk.

This led to match officials, club officials and other spectators to hurriedly leave the venue, while some post-match activities could not hold.

Some of the fans went looking for the match officials.

They claimed the officials robbed their darling team of at least a draw, saying he refused to award a goal in the fourth minute of second half added time.

This situation had come about some seconds before substitute Izuogu Chibueze went on to score Enyimba’s second goal.

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The match officials had to be hurried out of the stadium in an ambulance as the fans broke the doors into their dressing room.

They were in search of the centre referee and second assistant referee in particular, claiming the former had been involved in six away matches played by Enyimba.

Another group of fans were in search of the 3SC management officials, with a specific search for Babatunde Olaniyan, the club chairman.

One of the fans said Olaniyan should be blamed for not ensuring the club got “a fair deal” in match officials’ appointments.

The confused situation even led to the 3SC technical crew shunning the post-match news conference, where their Technical Adviser, Gbenga Ogunbote, had always been ever present.

But, in spite of no explanation coming from the club’s Media Officer, Tosin Omojola, it was learnt the home team were equally afraid of being attacked by their fans.

“No one is safe at this moment. We will rather stay in our dressing room until everything calms down,” a club official who asked for anonymity said on telephone.

The fans had to finally vent their spleen on stadium facilities, breaking several doors and windows in the dressing rooms and the mixed zone area.

During the match, Chijioke Mbaoma had given Enyimba the lead in the 57th minute from a penalty kick.

Kareem Ademola drew the home side level in the 82nd minute, while Chibueze scored the winning goal in the fifth minute of second half’s five added minutes.

Source: NAN

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