The normalisation of ‘not normal’ in Nigeria

Nigeria is a multi-ethnic, multi-religious and multi-cultural society, yet what worries me most is how quickly we normalise what is not normal across sex, religion, and ethnicity.

This week, social media in the North was set ablaze again by another troubling case involving a lecturer at the Maryam Abacha American University and his postgraduate supervisee. A lecturer allegedly demanded an illicit relationship in exchange for approving a student’s project. In a normal clime, the focus should not even be whether she is married or not. The fact is that she is a student. The student, together with her husband, reportedly arranged a meeting that exposed the lecturer. What followed was disturbing: the lecturer was assaulted by a mob. That assault was wrong. No one should be subjected to jungle justice. If a crime has been committed, the appropriate response is to report it to the police and the university authorities and allow the law to take its course.

What disturbs me, however, is not just the incident itself but the public reaction to it. A significant number of people have spent more time asking why the woman agreed to meet him, why she did not simply report him, whether it was a setup, or whether women also lure lecturers. Those questions may have their place, but they completely miss the central issue.

The relationship between a lecturer and a student is not one of equals. A lecturer has institutional authority, controls grades, supervises research, influences graduation timelines, and can profoundly shape a student’s academic future. That is what we mean by unequal power relationships, and it is the foundation for all forms of violence and abuse everywhere. Because of that imbalance, whether we like it or not, the ethical burden is greater on the lecturer. A student may behave inappropriately, make advances, or even attempt to manipulate a lecturer. The lecturer, however, has both the professional duty and the power to say no, document the incident, report it, or seek a reassignment. That is what professionalism and ethical standards demand.

This is true far beyond the university. We expect more from judges than litigants, more from doctors than patients, more from police officers than citizens, and more from teachers than students. The higher the authority you hold, the higher the standard you are expected to meet. That principle is fundamental to every profession built on trust. It is therefore a mistake to distribute blame equally when one party possesses far greater institutional power than the other.

What disturbs me most about the case is not just the allegation, but how quickly we normalised the wrong conversation around it. A lecturer allegedly used his institutional power to demand sex for academic approval. That alone is a betrayal of trust and abuse of the ethical standards he ought to uphold. Yet instead of outrage at the abuse of authority, social media was filled with “why did she go to meet him” and “women also do this.” We have become so used to excusing those in power that we now interrogate the victim and defend the system. This is the normalisation of the not normal. In any professional relationship built on trust, the person with authority carries the greater ethical burden. When we fail to hold them to that standard, and instead turn assault and victim-blaming into gist, we tell every student that their safety and dignity are negotiable. And a society that negotiates with abuse will never build institutions worth trusting.

This same pattern plays out across our national life.

Take insecurity, for instance. The Nigerian state is saddled by the Constitution with the primary responsibility of protecting lives and property. Yet today, citizens wake up to news of kidnappings, banditry, and communities paying ransoms to secure the release of their loved ones. Government officials then turn around to tell Nigerians “do not pay ransom,” while making little visible effort to rescue those in captivity or prevent the next abduction. The failure itself is bad enough. But what is even worse is how we, the Nigerian citizens, have normalised it. A Kenyan friend once told me she sometimes blames Nigerian citizens more than the government. In her words: “You people now budget for ransom.” And she’s right. We share “kidnap alerts” on WhatsApp like weather reports. We joke about “negotiating with kidnappers” as if it is part of civic life. We have institutionalised insecurity as our daily reality. That is sad.

Take policing, Nigerians on the roadside no longer treat extortion at checkpoints as a crime. We call it “sorting.” We say security personnel are not paid well, so young men budget for it before traveling. Drivers argue over the price instead of reporting it. We have turned illegality into a market transaction. Nigerians now pay tax to the government, family tax to loved ones who can’t afford three square meals, and tax to security personnel on the roadside. In fact, law-abiding Nigerian citizens are earning just to settle both formal and informal taxes.

Take elections, for example. Vote buying is no longer shameful. We call it “stomach infrastructure.” We collect money, eat the rice, the spaghetti, and then complain that leaders are not performing. We have normalised the sale of our mandate.

All of these are violations of the social contract between government and the citizen.

Governance is a two-way process. The government owes citizens protection, justice, education, and services. In return, citizens owe allegiance, taxes, and obedience to law. When government fails on its side of the bargain and citizens begin to adjust, adapt, and normalise the failure, both sides collapse the contract. If the state cannot guarantee safety, and we respond by treating kidnapping as normal; if police extort and we call it sorting; if votes are sold and we call it survival, then we must ask: what then is the essence of government?

We must also be careful not to allow debates about “women also do this” or “men can be victims too” to distract us from the facts of a particular case. Both statements can be true, and lecturers deserve protection from false allegations and inappropriate conduct by students. But those realities do not diminish the responsibility of a lecturer who abuses the authority entrusted to him. If we truly want safer universities, and indeed a safer Nigeria, we must build systems that protect everyone while insisting that those who wield power are held to the highest ethical standards. That is how trust in our institutions is preserved. And that is how we break the cycle of normalizing what should never be normal.

Kabu resides in Maiduguri

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