They smelled blood and gathered like hyenas. Not in the savannahs of Sambisa or the dry grasslands of Konduga, but in the digital amphitheatre of Nigeria’s public opinion: Facebook, Twitter, YouTube, the press, and WhatsApp.
At the centre of this frenzy was Professor Ishaq Oloyede, the Registrar of the Joint Admissions and Matriculation Board (JAMB). A technical glitch during the 2025 Unified Tertiary Matriculation Examination led to irregularities in the scores of thousands of candidates. It was later discovered that over 20 suspects, including some school proprietors, had hacked into JAMB’s server to fraudulently boost the scores of “special” candidates, charging fees ranging from N700,000 to N2 million.
The culprits reportedly infiltrated the national exam board, corrupted the computer-based testing system, and sullied the hopes of thousands of candidates. Yet, the national outrage did not pivot when this truth emerged. It simply fizzled.
Oloyede cried, perhaps out of genuine remorse or frustration, but Nigerians were merciless. They called for his dismissal, demanding his head on a pike of shame, despite his peerless exploits as JAMB registrar. A teenager, reportedly distraught by his UTME results, took his own life, further aggravating the rage of a populace milking the tragedy for all its worth. May Almighty God comfort the family of the deceased. No doubt, the teenager’s death was avoidable and heartbreaking.
But the glitch, however lamentable, was not unprecedented. In 2017, the Educational Testing Service (ETS) in the United States had to cancel thousands of Graduate Record Examination (GRE) results due to server breaches. Similar mishaps have occurred in the UK’s A-Level exams. Technology fails. Systems collapse. But only in Nigeria do we drag a man to the digital square and skin him in public view, while conveniently ignoring the syndicates who orchestrated the sabotage. The Department of State Security (DSS) must eventually make public the identities of the culprits, at least, to silence the drone of scepticism trailing the news of their arrest.
This is Nigeria, where the appetite for bad news has morphed into a national delicacy. It is no longer mere pessimism; it is schadenfreude in full bloom. An emotional disfigurement where citizens derive pleasure from the collapse of their own public institutions.
When news broke that Nigeria had quietly repaid its loan to the International Monetary Fund (IMF), one would expect relief. Instead, the public discourse quickly mutated into denial and deflection. Fact was contorted into fiction as influential voices, including supposed intellectuals, journalists, and opposition politicians, spread the falsehood that Nigeria still owed the IMF. Official documents from the Ministry of Finance and the Debt Management Office confirmed the debt repayment, yet the people preferred the lie because it was juicier.
Why? Because many Nigerians, particularly the vocal digital elite, suffer from a curious affliction: a longing to see Nigeria fail if it means the politicians they hate are discredited in the process. This dubious disillusionment and selective outrage are weaponised along party lines. We reserve our pitchforks for the ruling class only when our political enemies are in power. The revolutionaries of 2023, it turns out, are now the cheerleaders of chaos in 2025. Patriots by day, partisans by night.
Consider, too, the more recent uproar about a supposed $21 billion loan by President Bola Tinubu. Social media buzzed with fury as influencers, commentators, and news media bemoaned a purported bid by the president to plunge Nigeria into a $21 billion debt. And yet, once again, the truth was sacrificed on the altar of sensation.
The $21 billion figure is not an actual loan, but the aggregate borrowing ceiling outlined in Nigeria’s Medium-Term Expenditure Framework (MTEF) for both federal and state governments over the next three years. In reality, only $1.23 billion can be borrowed in 2025, and that figure includes borrowing by all 36 states and the Federal Government, across every geopolitical zone. But Nigerians did not care to check. They shared the headlines, forwarded the falsehoods, and relished the chaos.
Nigerians do not read. Most would rather not read the MTEF, the Appropriation Act, or even official communiqués. Instead, they rely on emotionally charged interpretations from partisan sources. We embrace anti-Nigerian narratives because they fit the tragic scripts we have already written in our minds. We do not wait to verify; we prefer to vilify. Shall we care to get informed, at least?
The true crisis is not technological, fiscal, or political. It is emotional. Nigerians are caught in a destructive sentimental loop, forever swinging between hope and despair. But rather than seek healing, we find solace in cynicism. We make bonfires of bad news, and subconsciously pray for collapse, that we might be vindicated in our pessimism.
This culture of cynicism is born of suffering and suspicion. Decades of misrule, corruption and failed promises have conditioned us to believe that nothing good can come from Nigeria. And when something good does come, like debt repayment or a public official taking responsibility, we dismiss it as propaganda or performance. We are allergic to good news because it disrupts our grievance narratives.
Why did Nigerians go silent after the arrest of 20 hackers who compromised JAMB’s systems? Why are we not celebrating the efficiency of the DSS and Police in apprehending the criminals who tried to discredit a national institution? Why are we louder in condemnation than we are in commendation?
The answer is disquieting. We do not want redemption. We want revenge; revenge on a state that failed us and a leadership that dashed our dreams. But revenge, when misdirected, becomes self-immolation. We are burning the house because we were denied a room.
And so, the same voices that mocked Oloyede’s tears now rustle silence as JAMB’s attackers are exposed. The same timelines that trended #JAMBFailedUs are now eerily quiet in the face of vindication. The hyenas have fed, and now they slink away into the shadows, waiting for the next wound to lick.
To stem the tide of cynicism, Nigeria’s leadership must govern more humanely and communicate better. Perception is power. The government must establish a National Information Literacy Campaign comprising a coalition of ministries, media houses, and civil society tasked to teach citizens how to verify information, read official documents, and engage responsibly on social media.
There is a need to create a Unified Government Fact-check Portal, a centralised platform where Nigerians can verify breaking news, track ongoing investigations, and access documents like the MTEF, Appropriation Acts, and debt records in simple, digestible formats.
We must incentivise reading and data literacy via relatable channels like entertainment, gamification, and social media, to encourage understanding of public documents and policy summaries.
When a public servant acts with honesty or when institutions self-correct, as JAMB did with its resit examination, the government and media must celebrate these actions with the same intensity we condemn failure. We must teach Nigeria to hear the quiet footsteps of integrity alongside the crash of corruption.
The state must close the emotional distance between itself and the citizenry. Only then will Nigerians begin to see it as a trustee, not a tormentor. Every democracy is fragile, but its greatest strength lies in the people. If Nigerians lose faith in the country, no textbook reform will suffice.
It’s about time we confronted our biases and cynicism, and ask: Do we want a better country, or do we just want our preferred side to win?
