The tragic death of Ruth Otabor, the younger sister of Big Brother Naija winner, Ijeoma Josephina Otabor, popularly known as Phyna, has once again exposed the double-edged nature of the internet.
On the one hand, it (the internet) is a powerful tool that can rally voices, push governments to act, and even drag corporations to accountability. On the other hand, it often drowns urgent, life-threatening issues in petty online drama, clout chasing, and the endless thirst for engagement.
Ruth’s story began on August 13, 2025, when she was hit by a Dangote truck near Auchi Polytechnic in Edo State. The accident left her fighting for her life with catastrophic injuries, including the amputation of her left leg at the pelvic region.
For 19 days, Ruth held on, battling in the hospital before eventually passing on August 31, 2025. She was only just starting in life, fresh from graduation. To her family, friends, and many Nigerians following the case, her death was more than just another statistic in the long list of lives cut short by reckless Dangote trucks. It was a symbol of a broken system that consistently places profit above people.
The Dangote Group, whose trucks have earned a reputation for destruction across Nigerian roads, acknowledged involvement in the accident. They initially took responsibility by transferring Ruth to Lagoon Hospital in Lagos and promising to cover her bills.
At one point, according to Phyna, they even offered to fly her abroad for further care. But somewhere along the line, their promises became slippery. Calls reportedly went unanswered, commitments delayed, and suspicions of foul play began to grow.
By the time Ruth died, the Dangote Group was backpedalling, issuing apologies, while the internet seethed over yet another preventable tragedy tied to Africa’s richest man’s conglomerate.
But as always, the outrage came too late. Nigerians were quick to cry for justice after Ruth had died, yet silent and distracted when she was alive and desperately in need of collective pressure to hold Dangote accountable.
Into this gap of silence stepped Martins Vincent Otse, known to his millions of followers as VeryDarkMan (VDM). For those who have watched his rise, VDM is no stranger to controversy. He positions himself as a crusader against injustice, but his methods often raise questions: Is he fighting for justice, or for the clicks and clout that come with it?
When Phyna reached out to him, he jumped on the case, accompanying her to meet with Dangote representatives. But soon after, cracks appeared. He accused Phyna of betrayal for attending follow-up meetings with her lawyer without him, claiming Dangote feared his presence.
In his signature style, he launched into accusations. Phyna was greedy; she demanded a billion naira from Dangote, and she prioritised money over her sister’s survival. He even vowed to shut down Dangote’s trucks in Edo if Ruth died, a threat many took as grandstanding rather than a feasible plan.
What should have been a united front demanding accountability turned into a circus. VDM’s outbursts, Phyna’s defensive apologies, and online debates over who was right or wrong overshadowed the urgent matter: Ruth’s fragile life hanging by a thread.
Some Nigerians even blamed VDM for “confusing” Dangote, arguing that his drama delayed decisive medical action. Others turned on Phyna, painting her as greedy and careless. And while this played out, Ruth slipped away.
It’s the same story we’ve seen repeatedly online. Nigerians mobilise outrage too late, when lives are already lost. During Ruth’s 19-day battle, hashtags trended more for memes than for advocacy.
One ridiculous meme even claimed Dangote’s favourite food was “kilishi”, a joke that went viral at a time when a young woman was losing her life. That, in a nutshell, is the tragedy of the internet age: we can spark global outrage in seconds, but we also trivialise human suffering for laughs and clout.
When Ruth died, the floodgates of sympathy opened. Celebrities posted condolences, bloggers published clickbait tributes, and Nigerians filled timelines with calls for justice. But as VDM bitterly pointed out, where were these voices when Ruth was still alive?
His anger at Nigerians’ selective outrage was justified, but his constant self-positioning as the only one who truly cared didn’t help either. Instead of uniting Nigerians around a single demand for accountability, VDM divided them.
Phyna, meanwhile, bore the brunt of online cruelty. She was accused of greed, dishonesty, and negligence, even as she collapsed under stress and had to be hospitalised herself. The family, who should have been mourning Ruth, found themselves fighting public battles on top of private grief.
Strip away the noise, and what remains is a society where corporations like Dangote operate recklessly, where governments fail to enforce safety, and where citizens only find their voices when tragedy has already claimed lives. Ruth’s death should spark deeper questions: Why are Dangote trucks still so notorious on Nigerian roads? Why is accountability always reactive, never proactive? Why do we, as a society, keep failing to mobilise until it’s too late?
The internet is powerful, yes. We’ve seen it bring down corrupt politicians, raise money for life-saving surgeries, and unite communities for good causes. But it is also fickle, easily distracted by gossip and drama. In Ruth’s case, the internet failed her when she needed it most.
The VDM-Phyna saga is not just about one influencer and one reality star clashing in the face of tragedy. It is a mirror held up to our society: our misplaced priorities, our addiction to noise, and our inability to focus on what truly matters until it’s too late.
Ruth’s life cannot be brought back. But if Nigerians can learn anything from her death, it should be this: justice must begin while the living can still benefit from it, not when hashtags and sympathy posts become mere decorations for the dead.
