Share!
*Nigeria and the Genocide Lie That Refuses to Die*
*By Kabir Abdulsalam,*
When Vice President Kashim Shettima mounted the podium at the United Nations General Assembly last week, he spoke less like a politician and more like a statesman. His appeal was unambiguous: the world must not abandon Palestine.
Shettima, who stood in for President Bola Tinubu at the 80th Assembly, reminded fellow leaders that Nigeria’s sympathy for the Palestinians was not abstract diplomacy. It came from lived scars. “We know what terrorism means,” he said, recalling how Nigerians have endured bombings in mosques, churches, markets, and bus stations.
Few nations understand the grief of indiscriminate violence as deeply as Nigeria does. It was a moral speech, drawing from Nigeria’s own wounds to show solidarity with another wounded people.
Yet, even as Shettima’s words echoed through the UN chamber, Nigeria’s name was being smeared elsewhere. In the United States, a late-night television host, Bill Maher, with his usual blend of comedy and provocation, casually declared that Christians were facing “genocide” in Nigeria.
Not long after, an obscure European radio station compiled a list of global hotspots and lumped Nigeria with Gaza, insisting faith alone determined who lived or died on our soil.
This is the paradox of our times: a nation pleading for justice abroad is portrayed as a butcher’s field at home. The irony could not be sharper.
To its credit, the Nigerian government moved quickly to dismiss such claims. Reno Omokri, social critic and former aide to President Goodluck Jonathan, who relishes skewering Western hypocrisy, reminded the world that Nigeria has produced both Christian and Muslim leaders at the highest levels.
A country that has elected Christians as President, Senate President, and Chief Justice can hardly be accused of orchestrating their extermination. He went further, citing data from the Global Terrorism Index and Armed Conflict Location and Event Data (ACLED) to show that violence in Nigeria is not a religious war but a toxic mix of banditry, terrorism, and rural conflicts.
To dress it up as “genocide” is not only false but dangerous. Why then do these narratives persist? Because they are easy. The West loves a story of villains and victims neatly divided along religious lines. “Muslims killing Christians” makes for a convenient headline that requires little homework.
It sells books, drives clicks, and feeds the prejudices of foreign audiences who cannot tell Borno from Benue. But beyond laziness lies mischief. Some of these claims are amplified by lobby groups, religious organisations, and even foreign governments with agendas of their own.
In this digital age, a fiery soundbite from a comedian in New York can reach more ears than the sober words of a Vice President at the UN. Outrage too often drowns out nuance. And the consequences are not just reputational.
Such distortions embolden extremists at home, who see international sympathy as a badge of legitimacy. They demoralise peace-builders working tirelessly to heal interfaith wounds. They scare off investors, who hear “genocide” and see only risk.
Worst of all, they erase the everyday complexity of Nigerians—Muslims and Christians—who still share markets, schools, weddings, and football pitches despite the tensions. A farmer in Plateau once told a journalist: “Yes, we fight, but we also farm together. My neighbour is Christian, I am Muslim.
When cows eat his maize, we quarrel. But on Christmas, he still sends rice to my house.” That is the Nigeria rarely seen abroad, invisible to late-night talk shows. There is a lesson too in Shettima’s speech. Nigeria pleads for Palestine because we recognise injustice.
But who pleads for Nigeria when foreign pundits peddle half-truths about us? If Shettima’s voice was firm for Gaza, then our government must also find equally firm voices to defend Nigeria’s image. Our embassies can no longer function as ceremonial outposts; they must become command centres in the war of narratives.
Other nations understand this well. Israel has perfected the art of countering hostile stories. Despite being accused of rights violations in Palestine, it has built a formidable machinery of global PR and diplomacy. Rwanda, once branded the capital of genocide, rebranded itself into a model of post-conflict stability.
Why then should Nigeria, with its size, intellect, and diaspora clout, be timid in defending its name? Of course, we are not without failings. Bandits still ravage Zamfara. Boko Haram, though weakened, lurks in the Northeast. Inter-communal clashes still spill blood in Plateau and Benue.
Citizens know that government has not solved these crises. But acknowledging insecurity is not the same as accepting the poisonous label of genocide. Nigeria must therefore fight on two fronts. At home, soldiers, police, and vigilantes must secure villages, roads, and schools.
Abroad, diplomats, media strategists, and thought leaders must secure our image. If we win battles in Sambisa but lose the war of narratives in New York and Brussels, history will not be kind to us. Because in the end, the world respects not just power but story.
The United States tells a story of freedom. China tells a story of civilisation on the rise. Even tiny Qatar tells a story of mediation. Nigeria’s story, too often, is told by others—as a land of chaos and despair. That must change.
Perhaps Shettima’s UN speech will be remembered not only for what it said about Palestine, but for what it implied about Nigeria. We cannot stand tall abroad while stooping at home. A nation that pleads for justice must also defend its own justice. If we cry for Gaza, we must also demand fairness for Maiduguri and Zamfara.
The lesson is clear: in an age of weaponised narratives, a country must fight not only on the battlefield but also in the realm of perception. Nigeria cannot allow others to define its story. Because once others tell your story long enough, it begins to harden into your reality.
Kabir Abdulsalam writes from Abuja and can be reached via: kbabdulsalam03@gmail.com.
