It’s Sarcastic Sunday with Mohammed Bello Doka, where we study Nigeria’s political gymnastics sarcastically because doing otherwise will choke us to death. In this oxygen-deprived republic, satire is no longer a choice; it is life support.
Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the national anthem of the week: Victory!
Sit down quickly — the schools are closed.
Yes, Nigeria has won again. Another glorious triumph in the endless war against banditry. Another round of press statements, smiling officials, chest-thumping “data boys,” and carefully worded declarations of “successful rescues.” Confetti everywhere. Except in classrooms. Those are locked. Children are home. Parents are terrified. But victory has been secured. Allegedly.
Welcome to a country where criminals walk free, schools shut down, and the government declares mission accomplished.
Let us begin with this miracle of modern security: the rescue without rescuers. In most parts of the world, a rescue involves soldiers, confrontation, arrests, maybe even handcuffs. In Nigeria, rescue is a metaphysical concept. A spiritual event. A press release. No bandit arrested. No camp dismantled. No rifle recovered. No boot print left behind. Yet somehow — mysteriously — victory is announced.
Who was defeated? Silence.
Who surrendered? Silence.
Who ran? Silence.
But the microphones were not silent. Oh no. They were very, very loud.
The Kebbi schoolgirls episode deserves its own chapter in the Guinness Book of Political Gymnastics. Girls abducted. Nation outraged. Government assures. Days pass. Then — relief! The girls are back. Cue praise singers. Cue hashtags. Cue patriotic chest rubbing. Except… the bandits themselves released a video. In clear tones, armed men mocking the state, telling the whole country: “There was no rescue. We negotiated. Your government failed.”
Normally, this would cause embarrassment. In Nigeria, it caused difficulty — not for the government, but for the spin doctors. How do you fight a video? How do you arrest a boast? How do you detain mockery?
Then, as if scripted by satire itself, the presidency’s spokesman helpfully clarified that the military contacted the bandits and ordered them to release the children. Contacted. Ordered. And they complied. Just like that. Because bandits, as we know, are famous for obeying instructions.
So let us ask very gently: what do we call a situation where abductors and the state communicate, reach an understanding, release hostages, and everyone goes home peacefully — except justice?
If you said negotiation, congratulations. If you said rescue, there is a government appointment waiting for you.
Still, the celebrations continued. And then — the masterstroke — schools were closed. Federal schools. State schools. Doors locked. Students sent home. Academic calendars sacrificed on the altar of “temporary measures.”
Pause.
Let us understand this logic clearly. Nigeria defeated bandits so thoroughly that it immediately retreated. Won the war so decisively that it shut down schools. Secured the future so bravely that it postponed education indefinitely.
This is not policy; this is performance art.
In real victories, children return to school. In Nigeria’s victories, schools run away from children.
And yet, online, the data boys went to work. Oh, how they worked. Anyone asking questions was branded unpatriotic. Anyone pointing out contradictions was accused of supporting criminals. Apparently, loving Nigeria now requires clapping while she trips over her own narrative.
Ask about arrests? You hate the country.
Ask about deterrence? You are sponsored.
Ask why bandits mock the state on video? You want Nigeria to fail.
No, dear patriots. Nigeria does not need critics to fail. It requires no assistance.
Let us try another tough question: what lesson did the bandits learn this week?
They learned that abducting children brings national attention.
That negotiations bring results.
That release brings applause.
That consequences are optional.
Incentives intact. Business model validated.
And what did parents learn? That the safest school is a closed one. What did children learn? That education is negotiable. What did the nation learn? That words are cheaper than security.
Yet the government insists: no ransom paid. Maybe. Maybe not. But let us grow up. Payment is not always counted in cash. Sometimes it is silence. Sometimes it is legitimacy. Sometimes it is the confidence that no boot will ever follow you into the forest.
This is why critics sound angry. Not because children were released — thank God for that — but because criminals were rewarded with escape and the state demanded applause.
Patriotism, contrary to official memos, is not measured by how loudly you clap but by how urgently you ask: Will this happen again? And deep down, everyone knows the answer.
Nigeria’s tragedy is not insecurity alone. It is the desperation to rebrand every failure as strategy. Every retreat as wisdom. Every embarrassment as innovation. We are not fixing problems; we are redesigning vocabulary.
Rescue now means release.
Victory now means closure.
Security now means hope.
And hope, as always, remains unpaid labour.
So yes, Nigeria won this week. Won so hard that schools shut down. Won so convincingly that bandits bragged. Won so completely that nobody was arrested. This is what success looks like now — a very successful failure.
Until next Sunday, breathe carefully. Satire is cheaper than therapy.