On The Frontline With Boma
There is a troubling culture that has quietly taken root in our society — the habit of wishing others dead and the reckless audacity of speaking ill of those who have already departed this world. It is a practice both disturbing and revealing. Disturbing because it exposes the cruelty that can lurk beneath civilised veneers. Revealing because it shows how fear, cowardice, resentment and unresolved grievances often hide behind silence until death offers a “safe” stage for performance.
Death. Five letters. Ancient as humanity, modern as tomorrow’s obituary. It is the one appointment no human being cancels, postpones or delegates. Scientists describe it clinically as the cessation of vital functions — the irreversible end of biological processes that sustain life. Spiritualists see it as transition, a passage from the physical realm to another dimension of existence. Philosophers have wrestled with it for centuries. Yet regardless of perspective — scientific, religious, metaphysical, one fact remains constant: death is inevitable.
It is the compulsory journey of every mortal. The rich and the poor. The powerful and the powerless. The saint and the sinner. The oppressor and the oppressed.
Knowing this, one would expect humility in our speech and restraint in our judgments. Instead, what do we often witness?
We see people wishing others dead in moments of anger. We hear phrases like “Let him just die and we’ll rest,” uttered casually, almost playfully, as though invoking death is no heavier than invoking rain. We watch social media platforms erupt with vitriol each time a public figure falls ill. We observe whispers turning into loud accusations the moment someone breathes their last.
More troubling is the pattern that has become familiar in our political and social landscape. While certain leaders are alive and in office, many who criticise them do so only in hushed tones. Some remain strategically silent. Others praise publicly and complain privately. But the moment death strikes — sudden or anticipated , courage suddenly finds its voice. The dead are tried in the court of public opinion with no defence counsel present. Allegations multiply. Stories become layered. Anger, once restrained, becomes unfiltered.
It is easy to fight a man who cannot respond.
In Nigeria, this phenomenon plays out repeatedly. A former head of state passes away, and debates about his legacy erupt afresh. A governor dies, and long-suppressed grievances resurface with renewed intensity. A business mogul is buried, and narratives about wealth accumulation begin to circulate with greater boldness. Even cultural icons and religious leaders are not spared.
When Sani Abacha died in 1998, reactions were sharply divided. To some, he was a strongman who maintained order; to others, he symbolised repression and alleged corruption. When Umaru Musa Yar’Adua passed on in 2010 after a prolonged illness, conversations about governance, transparency, and the handling of presidential health became more intense than they had been while he was alive. Even decades after his assassination, the name Murtala Mohammed still provokes debates about unfinished reforms and political destiny.
Debate is not the problem. Critical historical reflection is necessary for national growth. Nations must evaluate their leaders both in life and in death if they are to learn from the past. But there is a distinction between objective historical analysis and malicious vilification. There is a difference between accountability and character assassination. There is a line between truth-telling and venom.
What is at stake when we cross that line?
First, we erode our own moral integrity. A society that celebrates speaking ill of the dead teaches its younger generation that courage is optional in life but fashionable in death. It normalises cowardice disguised as boldness. True boldness confronts injustice when it matters most, while decisions are being made, while policies are being shaped, while influence is active. It does not wait for the grave to provide safety.
I have always admired toughness — not empty rhetoric, not keyboard activism, not soliloquies performed for applause — but action-filled, consequence-bearing courage. The kind that raises questions at town halls. The kind that demands accountability in legislative chambers. The kind that writes petitions, files lawsuits, organises peaceful protests, and insists on institutional reform. That is boldness. That is civic responsibility.
The other form — attacking the dead because they can no longer respond is moral laziness.
Second, the culture of death wishes and posthumous insults dehumanises not only the deceased but also their families. Behind every public figure is a private circle of grieving spouses, children, siblings and friends. When insults are spewed recklessly, it is not only the departed who is targeted; it is the innocent who are wounded. Grief becomes compounded by humiliation. Mourning becomes entangled with defensiveness.
What kind of society mocks a widow? What kind of nation insults children for the alleged sins of their father? Justice, if it must be pursued, should target institutions and systems — not grieving families.
Third, wishing others dead reflects a dangerous spiritual and psychological disposition. To desire the extinction of another human being because of disagreement is to trivialise life itself. Today it is a politician. Tomorrow it could be a colleague, a neighbour, even a family member. The threshold of empathy lowers each time death is invoked carelessly.
Religious traditions across cultures warn against this posture. Christianity teaches compassion and warns against judgment without self-examination. Islam emphasises accountability before God and the importance of guarding one’s tongue. Traditional African belief systems recognise ancestral dignity and the sacredness of life. Across these diverse frameworks, a common thread emerges: restraint in speech and humility in judgment.
A mortal soul conscious of divine accountability would tread carefully.
Recently, in a conversation with a colleague, we reflected on the reality that no human being is perfect. Every leader is a mixture of strengths and weaknesses. Every public servant operates within constraints — political, economic, institutional. This does not excuse wrongdoing, but it complicates simplistic narratives. The world is rarely black and white; it is shaded in grey.
The tragedy is that even when individuals have contributed meaningfully to society, some observers wait eagerly for their departure to amplify only their failures. It is as though death becomes an opportunity to settle old scores.
Why do people do this?
Sometimes it is fear. Criticising power while it is active carries risk — social exclusion, economic retaliation, political intimidation. Death removes that risk. Sometimes it is resentment — long-harboured anger that never found healthy expression. Sometimes it is the intoxicating anonymity of social media, where outrage generates engagement and engagement generates relevance.
But beyond these motivations lies a deeper issue: our collective discomfort with mortality. Death unsettles us. It reminds us of our fragility. And when confronted with that discomfort, some respond by projecting anger outward.
There is also the argument that “we must speak the truth, whether the person is alive or dead.” That is valid — truth should not be buried with the body. History must record facts. Societies must confront uncomfortable realities. But truth can be spoken with dignity. It can be documented responsibly. It can be contextualised.
Journalism, for instance, has a code of ethics. Obituaries often balance achievements with controversies, not to sanitise history but to present a fuller picture. Scholars conduct posthumous evaluations of leaders with evidence, not insults. Civil discourse allows room for critique without cruelty.
We must ask ourselves: Are we seeking truth, or are we seeking applause?
If our motivation is justice, then our methods should reflect justice. If our goal is reform, then our tone should reflect reform. But if our language is laced with mockery and personal attacks, then perhaps our objective is not national progress but emotional release.
The issues at stake are therefore not merely about manners. They are about the moral health of our society. They are about the example we set for younger generations watching how adults behave in moments of loss. They are about whether we can build a culture that separates accountability from animosity.
Imagine a society where criticism is timely and constructive. Where citizens engage leaders vigorously while they are in office. Where institutions are strengthened so that misconduct is addressed through legal and constitutional means, not through posthumous gossip. Where death triggers sober reflection, not celebratory insult.
That society is possible. But it requires intentional change.
It requires that we discipline our tongues. It requires that we practise courage in real time. It requires that we teach our children that disagreement does not equal dehumanisation. It requires that we remember our own mortality before invoking another’s.
One day, every one of us will make that inevitable journey. The five-letter word will apply personally. At that moment, what legacy will trail behind us? Will we have contributed to a culture of dignity or to a culture of disdain? Will our words have healed or harmed?
On the frontline of public discourse, we must choose carefully.
Yes, hold leaders accountable. Yes, demand transparency. Yes, document failures and expose injustice. But do so with integrity. Do so when it matters most. And when death comes as it inevitably will — allow space for solemnity.
Because in the end, beyond politics and power, beyond office and influence, we are all simply mortal travellers sharing borrowed time on earth.
And borrowed time deserves borrowed grace.
On The Frontline With Boma is published by The Port Harcourt Telegraph Newspaper authored by the Managing Editor
