NOVPUBWho just heard the governor's speech?
That question landed on Twitter like a thunderclap.
The tweet came from @YorubaDefender, a verified account belonging to a well-known Yoruba nationalist influencer with nearly two million followers. Within seconds, it was quoted, retweeted, screenshotted, and reinterpreted. But it was the thread underneath that set the fire ablaze.
"The governor has just DENIED all allegations regarding the land sales to foreign interests. He called it a coordinated smear campaign—an attack on our great city of Lagos, on our development, on our sovereignty as a people. He said these were malicious lies meant to tear us apart, to cast shadows on his leadership and the glory of our state.
But then… who are the attackers?
Who are those who whispered these lies? Who are those who question the integrity of this administration without proof, who stir chaos where there should be unity?
Before we go into that, let us revisit a slogan that many of us remember with pain and anger: 'Lagos is no man's land.'
Do you remember?
A slogan shouted not just in jest—but in defiance. A calculated attempt to erase history, to deny the roots of Lagos. They called it cosmopolitan, federal. They called it "everybody's." But beneath all those pretty words was a brutal truth: a cultural cleansing.
The Aworis were here. The Yorubas made this land. Our sweat, our blood, our ancestors. But they wanted us invisible.
Who said that slogan the loudest?
The same people now throwing mud at the governor. The same ones who scream louder when their chosen one loses elections. The same ones who pretend to build, only to plot the undoing of our peace.
The Igbos.
Let's call it what it is. Since their candidate lost, they've sought every excuse to bring fire to our door. First, it was the elections. Then the land. Tomorrow it will be something else.
But we, the Yoruba people, must stand together. We must protect Lagos. This land is ours—not a playground for outsiders who only know how to scream, blame, and destroy."
The tweet had barely cooled before chaos answered back.
Another post popped up almost immediately. This one from @Ezego_Naija, a respected Igbo voice online, known for his fiery tone and loyal following.
"Yorubas, betrayers. Always selling your people out for a plate of rice. I warned my people about you. You opened the gates and danced when they came to buy your land. Now you want to blame us?
Let's get some facts clear. Landmark Beach—who owns it? An Igbo man. Countless businesses that keep Lagos alive—Igbo. Doctors. Engineers. Builders. We built this city just as much.
And what did your precious governor do? Spit on us. Let a foreign man take our land while you clap like fools.
This was always the plan. That tweet was paid for. You want to change the topic from your betrayal? Too late."
And like a match to dry paper, the fire spread.
The comment sections turned into battlegrounds. Rage met rage, insult met insult. Fake screenshots were posted. Videos, real and doctored, began to circulate. No one cared for facts anymore. Truth became irrelevant. People had chosen sides.
One user, @Naija4Naijans, replied:
"These YARIBAS always selling out. Sold Nigeria in 1966. Selling it again in 2024. No backbone."
Another responded under it:
"These SOUTHEAST CLOWNS think they own everything. Crybabies. Always crying about Biafra this, oppression that. How about building your own cities instead of leeching off ours?"
Another tweet, venomous and viral:
"Hope your Igbo landlords in Lekki see this. They'll soon be the ones chased out. #LagosIsOurs."
A counter-comment followed:
"The Yoruba will NEVER rule Nigeria again. From traitors to beggars. You've lost your dignity and now you blame the Igbos. PATHETIC."
Then came one from a random, lesser-known user, lost in the chaos but speaking from a place of genuine pain:
"When did we become like this? Yoruba, Igbo, Hausa—are we not all suffering the same? No electricity, no water, no security. Yet we're here, tearing each other apart while the rich shake hands in secret rooms."
It was ignored, drowned out by the noise. met with a foolish reply
"You think we are like you our own Governor is working in Ikeja now for days on end we have had 24 hours light see this one better go to your home state you fool"
Every tweet, every comment, added oxygen to a growing wildfire. What began as a conversation about land became a battle of tribes. And then it became something more.
Suddenly, class got involved.
People began mocking the wealthy Igbos in Lekki, saying they would be nothing without Yoruba land. Others posted photos of famous Yoruba celebrities who had benefitted from eastern investments.
Then came the cultural wars.
Snide remarks about who had "real culture" and who copied who. Tweets comparing traditional dresses, food, weddings. Who was original. Who was "razz." Every comment turned into an opportunity to jab at the other side.
Then, a strange turn.
Someone posted an old video of Burna Boy mocking Davido at the grammy after a loss.
"What happened to your messiah now?" someone wrote. "You see, we were never united. Not really."
The tweet wasn't about Lagos. It wasn't about land. But it captured the growing spirit of the moment: that this was bigger than just Yoruba vs. Igbo, or government corruption, or even land. It was about Nigeria.
Nigeria was breaking.
Every tribe. Every class. Every subculture. They were all at each other's throats. The united front—the shared suffering, the solidarity born from hardship—was gone.
One tweet had done this.
Not the governor's speech. That had just been the stone tossed into the river.
It was the ripple that followed. The ripple made of fear, suspicion, ego, old wounds never healed, and newer ones freshly opened.
And now?
Now the whole country was drowning in the waves. that even a plea for help was drowned out.
"Please @SavvyRinu @AishaYesufu @FS_Yusuf_ @DavidHundeyin @Mochievous @Chude @falzthebahdguy @segalink this thing is REAL. Don't let them gaslight us. My boyfriend Kunle has been missing for 5 DAYS since those protests. He didn't do anything! They took him and no one can tell us where he is. His mother—she's paralyzed—is crying every night, begging to see her son. Please. We're losing hope. I'm begging. 💔😭 #WhereIsKunle #FreeTheInnocent''
And it went on like that—for days.
Discord, rage, accusations.Tweets fired like bullets.Broadcasts turned into battlegrounds.The nation, fractured not by weapons, but by words.
Nigeria.The only country in the world where your State of Origin can matter more than your State of Mind.
You could be born in Lagos, breathe Lagos, bleed for Lagos...but if your father came from Anambra, then you were not truly "Lagosian."Not in the eyes of the form, the system, the society.Not when it counted.
State of Origin—two words used with surgical precision by the ruling class.Labels crafted not to unite, but to divide.Tools of soft control: subtle enough to be ignored, sharp enough to draw blood.What better way to keep a nation distracted than to pit its children against each other?
And yet, there were those who didn't fall for it.Not because they were saints—but because they knew the trick.Because they had used it, once.
One of them was Alhaji Folarin Otedola.
Wealthy. Cunning. Old enough to have seen Nigeria's cycles.He had watched the governor's speech on three separate channels.He had read the official statement, the denials, the smokescreens.
He knew a performance when he saw one.Not just because he'd seen so many.But because this time, the propaganda had touched home.His nephew—young, ambitious, freshly returned from his service—had bought a property in Lekki just Last month.And just last night, he was chased out. No notice. No law.Just fear.
Alhaji Folarin wasn't moved by hashtags or trending videos.But blood?Blood was different.
The room was dim. Heavy curtains blocked out the morning sun, leaving behind the filtered glow of indulgence.
Soft moans echoed off the tiled walls.
A woman's voice broke through the haze, breathy and playful:"Alhaji… Alhaji… Ah—"
Folarin Otedola leaned back, chest heaving as he collapsed beside her on the bed, laughing deeply."You this girl," he said between pants, "you want to send me to the grave, abi?"
She giggled, curling up next to him, sweat clinging to her skin."Alhaji, I need to go. I have to clock in at work."
Folarin scoffed, pulling her closer."Which work? Is this not work we're doing here?"
She rolled her eyes, still smiling. "This isn't what I applied for when I brought you my CV, sir."
"Ehn?" he grinned. "But you didn't complain when I carried you for shopping buying that Balenciaga."
They both laughed.
But the moment froze when her eyes shifted to the phone resting on the dresser—its camera light still blinking faintly.
She hesitated."Alhaji... those videos. Are you sure—?"
"Forget that one," he said, waving it off. "It's just for my eyes. Memories."
His hand reached for the device to switch it off—when it buzzed.
He frowned.Who was calling at this time?
He checked the screen."Sister mi."His face tightened.
He wiped his hand on the bedsheet, then answered.
"Sister, good morning!" he said quickly, adjusting his tone. "What you're downstairs?"
The fun vanished. Reality returned.
The click of leather slippers echoed off the marble floors as Alhaji Folarin Otedola descended the grand spiral staircase of his Ikoyi mansion, the sleeves of his fine white kaftan rolled casually to the elbows. He had barely buttoned the front when he caught sight of his younger sister standing in the foyer—arms folded, face taut with rage. Her presence here, unannounced and visibly livid, triggered a sigh from his chest.
Tolani had always been the tempestuous one. Even as a girl, her emotions rode on fire. But this? This looked like a storm, and he hadn't even had breakfast.
"Brother, is this fair?!" she exploded the moment his feet hit the floor. "Is this how we do things in this family now?"
Alhaji Folarin didn't answer immediately. His eyes moved behind her. Seated on the cream leather couch, legs restless and face dark with shame, was Daniel—his nephew. The boy looked exhausted, his once-vibrant demeanor dimmed like a lantern on its last breath of oil.
Tolani charged forward, her voice climbing with each step. "I stood there, Folarin! I stood there and watched policemen—armed to the teeth—drag my son out of his own house. His own house! And you want to tell me nothing is wrong?! My own son—Daniel! In front of the whole street! What disgrace!"
"Tola, calm down," he said, hand lifted gently. But her fury was relentless.
"You say calm down? Were you calm when they came for your own daughter two years ago over something she didn't do? Did you calm down then?"
Alhaji Folarin sighed, dragging his palm over his face. He looked older in that moment—worn, burdened. "Tola, I'm telling you to calm down because this matter is not as black and white as you're painting it."
She scoffed bitterly. "Of course! Because you're busy with—"
A voice broke the moment like a blade through silk. From the hallway came the calm, slightly embarrassed tone of a woman.
"Good day, ma."
Tolani turned sharply, and Alhaji's eyes followed. The young woman who had been upstairs only moments ago—the one who had moaned his name with such breathless desire—stood at the archway, dressed immaculately now in a fitted blouse and pencil skirt. Her makeup was done with precision. The transformation from lover to professional was almost comical.
"Alhaji, I'm off to the office," she said with a polite bow.
Neither Alhaji nor his sister responded. They simply watched, frozen. The woman turned and walked toward the exit, her heels clicking confidently against the tiles. As she opened the door and stepped out, the silence lingered like a held breath.
Daniel, from his corner, narrowed his eyes.
She looked familiar.
Where had he seen her?
Before he could speak, his mother's voice surged again. "So this is what you've been up to! This is how you spend your time while my son is being harassed! While he's being treated like a criminal?! God! Won't you change, Folarin?! Are you not tired of this life?"
Alhaji had had enough. His voice thundered this time—not with anger, but with weariness.
"Just calm down!"
His finger pointed sharply toward the door. "That young lady you just saw is Priscilla Adetokunbo. That name ring a bell?"
Tolani blinked.
"Daughter of Dapo Adetokunbo. The current Minister of Housing."
Silence.
"She came here to discuss Daniel."
He stared at her, his chest heaving slightly. "You always jump to conclusions, Tola. You talk too much without knowing anything. I've been working. Behind the scenes. Because unlike you, I know how dangerous this situation is."
His voice dropped. "This thing is political. It's layered. And you coming here shouting won't solve anything."
He exhaled, then turned toward Daniel, his eyes softening. "Come here, my man."
Daniel stood slowly and walked toward his uncle. Alhaji reached for his shoulder with one hand and gave a firm grip.
"I've been asking the right people the right questions. But now I want to hear from you directly."
He stared into his nephew's eyes—searching, protective, deliberate.
"How did this happen? Who were the officers? What were their names?"
