E.

life is at least 50% terrible, but let's keep that from the kids.

[E. @Egbukom]

However, us young health professionals, though full of zeal, a desire to impress, and an instinctive fear of constituted authority, must learn and practice self-advocacy.

Be selfish, no life is more important than yours.

[E. @Egbukom]

This is harsh and unhelpful to say because ;

1. victim blaming not do much to address the lapses in healthcare leadership that allow such tragedies to occur, and

2. none of us are privy to the circumstances that led the deceased to endure those harsh conditions for so long.

[Jauro XVII @Danjauro_]

Pediatric Surgery.. called in sick, SR said had to come in for a sick leave. I switched off my phone and took my day off. When I came back, he even had audacity to ask how I’m now feeling😂

Young doctors who die of burnout at some certain point are accessory to their own tragedy

[E. @Egbukom]

What do you say when someone robs you blind at 2 pm in the afternoon in the middle of a busy market while everyone watches?

What do you do after this daylight humiliation, when the robber then asks you to kneel and say thank you?

[gst @wearegst]

Nigeria’s 2026 budget prioritizes government luxury and excess while starving critical public services of the funding Nigerians desperately need.

[E. @Egbukom]

Now i lay, months later, cushioned by my cocoon of privilege, reading that little children have been slaughtered in their streets, given less dignity in death than the cattle they herd.

[E. @Egbukom]

I spent a few weeks in rural Kwara just under a year ago.

Like everywhere else in Nigeria, little children walked barefoot, holding each passerby by the hand.
Full-fledged beggars, before learning to write or read.

[E. @Egbukom]

With little more than a raffia hat, a wooden pole, and threadbare clothing, little children walked herds of cattle.

Already full-time employees, without a strand of hair below their eyebrows.

[E. @Egbukom]

We betray each other and our own selves when we accept this nigerian anyhowness.
Today, it's someone, somewhere distant. Tomorrow it's you. Me.
Nothing will change if we continue to work with nothing and hold no one accountable.

[E. @Egbukom]

and what did it take to get me tweeting again?

[E. @Egbukom]

Then so be it.
Let her put them outside.
If someone doesn't respect you, they simply don't, and if it takes moving into your partner's house to realise that, then so. be. it.

[Tall in complexion and 1278 others @_vheencent]

Enough you’d know they aren’t wired for that kind of responsibility even when they can afford it, not because they are bad people but because they are emotional unstable.
Your wife fit dey go through emotional turbulence make you come back from work see your things outside, she-

[Elnathan John @elnathan_john]

What you describe (well) is not simply hypocrisy or individual wickedness; it is the most distilled expression of the Nigerian condition. Financial violence is not a side effect of our society—it is the mirror that reflects, with painful clarity, every other violence we have normalised. A man who lives in a ₦200 million house, drives V8 engines, sends his children to million-naira schools, and then pays a gateman ₦30,000 is not an aberration. He is a priest in the shrine of Nigerian violence. His behaviour is not a deviation from our culture; it is one of its central liturgies, performed daily and without shame.
This is the part we refuse to confront: many Nigerians who rage—correctly—about government dysfunction are themselves waiting for their turn to wield the very weapons they condemn. They are not opposed to violence; they are merely opposed to being its targets. Our anger is not moral; it is positional. We are outraged that violence has not yet favoured us. What the state does with police and policy, citizens do with salary slips, house rules, religious authority, and silence. The difference is only in scale.
Because the violence is never only financial. It is ethnic, religious, political, sexual, domestic, psychological. It is the teacher beating a child until they faint. The woman shaving the hair of the s̶l̶a̶v̶e̶ underage child who "works" as her "househelp" while braiding the hair of her three year old child. The landlord raising rent without notice. The rich pastor demanding tithes from the unemployed. The civil servant inflating a contract because “everyone does it.” The boss who cannot imagine a worker deserving rest. The man who believes his wife’s suffering is part of divine order. The person on Twitter who asks why the Shiite who was massacred in cold blood dared to stand in front of a soldier. The young Nigerian who laughs at a video showing horrific violence against a gay person, asking: Why are you ghey? The famous person who uses the police as private thugs to kidnap and jail a person who said something he did not like. The gateman treated as less than human by people who weep about bad governance. Nigerian life is a hydra-headed set of violences, enacted casually, instinctively, almost aesthetically—as though cruelty were an inherited art form.
Everywhere in Nigeria, there is a small tyrant rehearsing for the day they become a big one.
This is why I part ways, however gently, with Achebe’s insistence that Nigeria's tragedy is “simply and squarely a failure of leadership.” Leadership is never simple, and failure is never square. Violence in Nigeria is not a malfunction at the top; it is a cultural operating system—pervasive, inherited, ritualised. It is cultivated, nurtured, and released into public office by a culture in which violence sits comfortably in the private sphere. A country does not repeatedly elevate cruel, indifferent leaders unless cruelty and indifference already flourish in the intimate lives of its citizens. Nigeria’s tragedy is not simply a “failure of leadership.” It is a society that has made violence normal, acceptable, even aspirational. Leadership amplifies what the culture has already perfected.
Nigeria is not broken only at the top. It is broken in the everyday decisions of ordinary people who do not see the humanity of those beneath them; in the casual brutality that has become the air we breathe. The man paying his gateman ₦30,000 is not simply stingy—he is participating in the same moral architecture that makes bad governance possible. He is the government, scaled down to the size of a compound. His choices are not separate from Nigeria’s dysfunction; they are its most intimate expression, its microcosm, its domestic theology.
Until we confront the fact that the violence of Nigeria is not only systemic but cultural; until we admit that many citizens are eager apprentices in the same cruelty they denounce; until we recognise that oppression is not only something done to us but something we rehearse and refine—nothing will change. Nigerian culture is violent on every level.
A country is the sum of its small violences. And in Nigeria, those sums are enormous.

[E. @Egbukom]

Hi, again.

[E. @Egbukom]

@Anikeoutfits Go girl!

[E. @Egbukom]

Hi.

[E. @Egbukom]

@UchennaviaX @imghelpinghand Oh, thanks sir.

[E. @Egbukom]

@UchennaviaX @imghelpinghand 🤣 was not meant to happen then.

[E. @Egbukom]

@UchennaviaX 🤣

[E. @Egbukom]

@UchennaviaX You're worse than Lilian, i'm sure.

[E. @Egbukom]

@Htothe_Izzzo As someone who's been in a similar situation, i'd say:
- get someone to examine your abdomen or do it yourself.
- peripheral blood film.
You studied medicine, Izzy? That's a revelation.

[E. @Egbukom]

@___layoo What unit have you been posted to, baby?