Olaju: Commodification of Disgrace
Femi Akintunde-Johnson
Once upon a time, Nigerians would have recoiled in horror at the mere whisper of a marital scandal. Such tales, when they did surface, were the hushed whispers of street corners and hushed-up family meetings – never the stuff of public discourse, let alone the daily menu of social media influencers and viral content creators. But times have changed. Ọlaju, that Yoruba expression for a hollow, self-indulgent civilisation, has taken firm root in our social fabric. And its latest harvest? A bawdy and messy parade of marital infidelity, staged with the enthusiasm of a Nollywood blockbuster, the reckless abandon of a reality TV show, and the audience participation of a village square palaver.
The principal players in this farce are a certain comedian and skitmaker, Ijoba Lande (real name: Ganiu Morufu), and his wife, Darasimi, whose extracurricular engagements have stunned even the most unshockable of netizens. As of the last count, Ijoba Lande himself has tallied 21 suitors who have, shall we say, generously benefited from the conjugal benevolence of his beloved spouse. The numbers are still coming in – who knows, we might yet see a Guinness World Record entry for “Most Unfaithful Wife in a Viral Scandal.”
But more intriguing than the sordid details is the gleeful enthusiasm with which the protagonists and their hangers-on are engaging in this grotesque public autopsy. One of the named men, a certain Baba Tee (real name: Babatunde Tayo), took to social media to confess, explain, justify, and ultimately apologise for his role in the pantomime. In doing so, he unwittingly ensured that Nigerians had something juicier to feast on than the recent Akpabio-Natasha National Assembly skirmish. Indeed, it seems the only things our people love more than political scandals are sexual ones – especially when they are packaged as free-to-air reality TV.
It is not enough that a marriage has publicly unravelled in the most spectacular fashion. No, that alone would be too simple. There must be lengthy Instagram Live sessions where accusations fly like stray bullets in Ajegunle, YouTube interviews where the disgraced parties engage in emotional stripteases, and TikTok skits where clout-chasing comedians reenact the debauchery for comic relief. The moral compass of an entire nation appears to have been replaced with a crude, insatiable hunger for sensation.
One must ask: why do these people feel no shame? Why do they willingly lay their private misdeeds bare for all to see, as though public disgrace were a badge of honour? Why is there a sense of competition in the public disclosure of infidelities, as if the objective is to outdo the next scandal? We have moved beyond the era where scandal was something to be avoided; now, it is something to be monetised.
The commodification of disgrace is not new, but it has never been as lucrative as it is today. The social media generation, conditioned by algorithms that reward sensationalism, has embraced disgrace as a pathway to influence. What used to be private sins are now premium content, with live audiences that run into the hundreds of thousands. Instead of shame and reflection, we get confessionals that come with commercial breaks, monetised views, and an army of engagement-hungry bloggers ready to milk every last drop of outrage from the situation.
This public spectacle of depravity is not an isolated case – it is merely the latest episode in a long-running series. Before Ijoba Lande and his marital misadventures, there was the cross-dressing community’s penchant for outlandish confessions, the leaked bedroom tapes of celebrities who somehow always seem surprised when their “private” videos find their way to the internet, and the ever-growing archive of pastors and politicians caught in compromising positions. Each scandal comes with a three-act structure: exposure, backlash, and rebranding.
The roots of this decay are deep. Traditional Nigerian society once prided itself on decorum, on the sacredness of family and personal honour. There was a time when scandals were treated with solemnity, when personal failings were matters for quiet reflection and correction, not public theatrics. But what happens when a society prioritises virality over virtue, when shame is no longer a deterrent, and when morality is an optional extra? You get what we are witnessing today: a collapse of boundaries, an erosion of dignity, and a country where personal disgrace is just another genre of entertainment.
The consequences are dire. The younger generation, raised on this diet of indiscriminate sexual libertinism, crude sensationalism, and the cult of shamelessness, will internalise these values. They will learn that clout is more valuable than character, that a scandal is more profitable than a clean reputation, and that morality is a relic best left to pre-internet Nigeria.
This is not a call for puritanism – Nigerians have never been saints. But even in our imperfections, there was once an understanding that some things were not for public consumption. That line has been permanently erased. We are now in an era where people will broadcast their infidelities, film their confessions, and pin the blame on “spiritual forces” or “mistakes of the flesh,” all while promoting their next skit or YouTube channel.
The way forward? That is the hardest part. The genie is out of the bottle, and morality cannot be legislated back into a society that has collectively abandoned it. But at the very least, we must begin by calling out this madness for what it is: the shameless, mindless decay of a society that has mistaken clout for progress. The solution is not censorship, nor is it self-righteous moralising, but an honest and rigorous conversation about where we are headed as a people.
We must begin to ask ourselves hard questions. What do we gain by making public spectacle of private sins? When did self-respect become a disposable commodity? And at what point do we acknowledge that a culture that rewards disgrace will ultimately destroy itself?
Until we answer these questions, the harvests of Ọlaju will continue to multiply. And each season, the fruits of our collective moral bankruptcy will grow ever more grotesque, until there is nothing left to reap but regret.
