This week, social media drowned in grief, anger, and weary reflection. A familiar phrase returned with stinging accuracy: “Nigeria happened to her.” It didn’t trend because it was clever. It trended because it was too true, the death of Somtochukwu Maduagwu, fondly called Sommie or Somto, a 29-year-old Arise TV anchor and producer.
On September 29, 2025, Somto died in Abuja after an armed robbery attack at her Katampe Extension residence. Early whispers said she was shot. Later reports revealed the darker twist: in a desperate attempt to escape, she jumped from the third floor of her building. She didn’t survive. A vigilante guard was also gunned down. Police confirmed her death at Maitama District Hospital and promised an investigation.
For her colleagues, this was not just another tragedy. Somto had left the UK to return home, convinced she could make a difference. She was young, bright, and ready to build. Instead, the country she came to serve buried her. In the cruellest irony, she returned to plant seeds of hope but ended up as one more cautionary tale.
Tributes flooded the internet. Friends praised her warmth. Arise TV lauded her brilliance. But one refrain echoed louder than all the kind words: “Nigeria happened.”
And we all knew what that meant. The phrase has become a national anthem without melody. What makes it even crueller is that not long before, Somto herself had voiced the hope that Nigeria would never ‘happen’ to her or her loved ones. In the end, her own words became a grim prophecy.
Of course, not everyone bought into the narrative. Reno Omokri popped up online, pointing out that tragedy happens everywhere. After all, Bob Marley was shot in Jamaica. John Lennon in New York. Lucky Dube in South Africa. He quoted Ecclesiastes: “Time and chance happen to them all.” His point? Pain is universal.
And he is right, even in this same Nigeria, there are countless success stories. The same soil that swallowed Somto’s dreams has raised world-beaters: from music icons like Wizkid, Burna Boy, and Tems to sports champions like Tobi Amusan, tech founders making waves in Silicon Valley, and everyday Nigerians building empires from kiosks. For every “Nigeria happened,” there is also a “Nigeria made me.” Nigeria gave Somto the stage where she shone so brightly in the first place.
However, that dual reality is exactly the tension of living here. Nigeria is both promise and peril, a place that births global stars while also breaking ordinary lives. It offers opportunities that many grab and run with, yet it also frustrates, disappoints, and often destroys. To be Nigerian is to live in constant negotiation between despair and hope, between what is and what could still be. That is why, even after tragedy, Nigerians still cling to the belief that their country can work, because they’ve seen glimpses of it working, even though it is often very faint.
As if to rub it in, Somto’s death came just two days before Nigeria’s 65th Independence anniversary. Normally, that’s a milestone for fireworks, festivals, and parades with the green and white waving in the air like banners of pride and possibility. Instead, celebrations were muted. More sighs than songs. More “Happy New Month” than “Happy Independence.”
President Bola Tinubu assured Nigerians that “the worst is over.” A nice line, except Nigerians have heard it more times than they can count. By now, “the worst is over” or “suffer for a while” sounds less like reassurance and more like a running joke, like telling a man stuck in traffic that the road is free “just after the next junction.”
The Abuja parade was stripped down to prayers, speeches, and a change of guard. The grand parades of old? Missing in action. Across states, only small events took place. Even Big Brother Naija housemates tried to sprinkle glitter on the gloom with poetry and costumes. But it’s hard to dance when your social media timeline is split between sequins and Somto’s face in black and white.
At 65, most nations are seasoned adults, wise, stable, reflecting on legacies. At 65, a person is preparing for retirement, sharing lessons learned. Nigeria at 65? Still a restless teenager in borrowed agbada, loud, restless, stubborn, yet tripping over the same problems: epileptic power, vanishing jobs, multiplying debts, and insecurity that never quite leaves the stage.
And Nigerians? They’ve turned endurance into a lifestyle brand. Ask how someone is coping, and the default answer is “We dey manage.” It’s our national slogan, useful everywhere, from inflation to heartbreak. It’s the verbal equivalent of duct tape: it doesn’t fix the problem, but it holds the spirit together.
Yet, to be fair, Nigeria has also been a stage where dreams have found light. This is the same country that produced Nobel laureates, global tech founders, and business moguls who built empires out of thin air. It is the land where resilience sometimes flips into brilliance, and where people who might have been overlooked elsewhere shine with uncommon audacity. For every “Nigeria happened,” there is also a “Nigeria made”, stories of Nigerians who rise, thrive, and carry the country’s name across borders with pride.
So what exactly are we celebrating at 65? Is it resilience? Is it survival? Or is it the dark national talent of laughing so we don’t cry?
For Somto, those questions came too late. But for the living, they remain urgent. Nigerians don’t want their biographies written in hashtags of tragedy. They want a country where survival isn’t an Olympic sport, where independence is more than a yearly holiday, and where “Nigeria happened” is no longer a permanent excuse.
As Nigeria looks to its next chapter, the real test isn’t proving that “bad things happen everywhere.” It’s making sure that here, bad things stop happening with such unholy consistency. Because by 70, Nigerians should not still be muttering “Nigeria happened.” By 70, we should finally be able to say, with a sigh of relief and maybe a small dance: Nigeria is happening, for us, not against us.
