Hadiza Abdulraheem
Once again, Nigeria has earned its place in the headlines for all the wrong reasons: stampedes. Bodies jostling, lives trampled, cries drowned in the madness of a rushing crowd. And as usual, the media rushes in, flailing their pens to attribute blame to the economy, the government, or the nebulous entity called politics. But let’s pause and reflect for a moment. Are these stampedes really just about poverty, unemployment, or governmental ineptitude? Or is this phenomenon a mirror reflecting the disarray embedded deep within the psyche of the average Nigerian?
In December 2024, a series of tragic stampedes unfolded across Nigeria, casting a shadow over the festive season. In Ibadan, Oyo State, a children’s funfair turned fatal when 35 young lives were lost in a chaotic surge.Similarly, in Abuja, the nation’s capital, a stampede at the Holy Trinity Catholic Church in the Maitama District resulted in 10 deaths and numerous injuries.
In Okija, Anambra State, a rice distribution event led to the deaths of 22 individuals, further highlighting the pervasive nature of this issue.These incidents are not isolated but part of a recurring pattern that paints a grim picture of our society.
We love to chant about reform—”restructure the system,” “purge corruption,” “fix the economy”—but what about the reform needed in our everyday lives? The disorder we criticize so vehemently in our politicians is the very disorder we carry in our DNA as a society. These stampedes are not just tragic accidents; they are physical manifestations of our collective inability to do things the right way.
Let’s not deceive ourselves: Nigerians are notorious for their disdain for order. Queueing? That’s a myth. Right of way? That’s for cowards. Respect for time? Overrated. In every corner of our lives, from religious gatherings to job recruitment drives, we seem wired to prioritize urgency over structure, and selfishness over civility. The same people who bemoan the stampede deaths are often the first to push and shove when they see a line.
What’s worse is that we’ve normalized this chaos. We excuse it with glib phrases like, “It’s not our fault; it’s survival.” Yet, survival does not justify trampling others, just as desperation does not excuse moral and social bankruptcy. Our instinct to cut corners, skip processes, and prioritize self-interest above community is a national epidemic.
Yes, the economic situation is dire. Millions of Nigerians live below the poverty line, and opportunities are few and far between. But poverty alone cannot explain why a religious event, a food distribution drive, or even a music concert ends in stampedes. Many countries are plagued with economic woes yet manage to maintain basic societal decorum. In Nigeria, however, the poverty narrative has become a crutch to absolve us of accountability.
Take the Ibadan funfair tragedy, for example. While it is true that economic hardship may have driven people to seek free entertainment, it was a lack of planning and order that caused the deaths. Thousands were allowed to gather without proper crowd control, and attendees ignored basic protocols, rushing to the event as though their lives depended on it. Similarly, the Abuja church incident—which could have been a straightforward event—turned fatal because organizers and participants alike failed to respect order. Thousands crammed into a poorly ventilated space, pushing and shoving, with no regard for safety.
We’ve weaponized poverty as a blanket excuse for bad behavior, absolving ourselves of the responsibility to act as decent human beings. It’s as though the moment you mention hunger, chaos becomes acceptable, as though disorder and indiscipline are the default modes of the oppressed.
The media’s obsession with making every Nigerian tragedy a political problem is both exhausting and dishonest. While it’s true that our leaders are woefully inadequate, the rot doesn’t stop at Aso Rock. We—the everyday people—are complicit in perpetuating this disorder. Who created the culture where pushing and shoving are normal? Who raised children with no respect for systems? Who accepts shortcuts and bribes as solutions to simple problems? Hint: It’s not just the politicians.
The real tragedy of these stampedes is not the politics but the optics: the image of a nation so steeped in chaos that even gathering for charity becomes a deadly game. What does this say about us? About our humanity? About our values?If we’re serious about reforming Nigeria, we must start with ourselves. A nation is not a collection of politicians; it is a collection of people. And until we acknowledge our role in the madness, we’ll keep blaming governments for problems rooted in our own dysfunction. Reforming the political space is not enough if the social fabric is tattered.
Let’s be honest: We don’t need political manifestos to learn how to queue. We don’t need government intervention to teach us to respect personal space. We don’t need constitutional amendments to understand that stepping on someone else’s head in the name of survival is not only inhumane but shameful. These are values we should imbibe as individuals, not policies to be enforced by the state.
The next time a stampede makes headlines, resist the urge to point fingers at Abuja. Instead, look in the mirror. Ask yourself: Have I contributed to this culture of chaos? Have I pushed, shoved, or skipped a line in my own life? Because until we answer those questions honestly, we’ll remain trapped in this vicious cycle of disorder and blame.
Reform begins at home, in our streets, in our gatherings, and in our everyday interactions. If we cannot govern ourselves in the little things, how can we expect to rule a nation? The stampedes are not just tragic; they are a reflection of us. And until we fix ourselves, nothing else will change.
