In the grand, dusty theatre of West African governance, where the costumes are expensive and the scripts are written in the ink of desperation, the Nigerian Federal Government has decided to refine its latest comedy of errors. The protagonist—or perhaps the sacrificial goat, depending on how much you enjoy the smell of incense—is Omoyele Sowore. His crime? He had the audacity to suggest that President Bola Tinubu might possess certain qualities traditionally associated with the word 'criminal.' Naturally, rather than ignoring the digital screams of a perennial activist, the state has decided to mobilize its entire legal apparatus to prove that their feelings are very, very hurt.

Behold the ‘amendment.’ In a move that suggests the Ministry of Justice has finally realized that suing Mark Zuckerberg for the opinions of a disgruntled Nigerian is about as effective as screaming at the Atlantic to stop being salty, the government has delisted Facebook and X from its cybercrime charges. It is a moment of staggering clarity. They’ve decided that the platforms are merely the stage, and while the play is terrible, they can only afford to arrest the actors. This is the hallmark of the modern autocrat: a realization that you can’t fight the architecture of the internet, but you can certainly crush the thumb that pressed 'send.'

The charges, stemming from a publication where Sowore dared to label the sitting President with a term usually reserved for people who take things that don’t belong to them, have been polished like a rusted trophy. The Nigerian state is obsessed with the aesthetics of legality. They don’t just want to silence you; they want to do it with the correct font size on the charge sheet. It’s a fascinating look into the psyche of a regime that controls a nation of over 200 million people yet finds its greatest existential threat in a social media post. If the foundations of the Aso Rock Presidential Villa are so shaky that a few characters on a screen can cause a structural collapse, perhaps the problem isn't the critic, but the architecture.

Sowore, of course, plays his part with the weary enthusiasm of a man who has made a career out of being arrested. He is the professional fly in the ointment, and the Nigerian government is the man who tries to kill a fly with a sledgehammer, only to wonder why the vase is broken and the fly is still buzzing. This entire saga is a testament to the intellectual bankruptcy of the political class. On one side, we have the 'progressive' activist who believes that name-calling on the internet is a revolutionary act. On the other, we have a government so thin-skinned it treats a Facebook post like a coup d'état. It is a symphony of the stupid.

Let’s dissect the 'Cybercrime' label. In most parts of the world, cybercrime involves stealing credit card numbers or hacking into power grids. In Nigeria, it apparently involves bruising the ego of a man who has already won the highest office in the land. The law is being used as a prophylactic against criticism, a digital condom to ensure that the public never actually touches the skin of the state. By amending these charges, the Federal Government isn’t showing leniency; they are showing their work. They are refining the process of state-sponsored petulance. They are narrowing their focus to ensure that the message is clear: the platforms are safe, but the people are not.

The removal of the social media giants from the suit is particularly telling. It’s a white flag raised toward Silicon Valley. The Nigerian government knows it cannot win a fight against the algorithms that govern our collective consciousness, so it retreats to the familiar comfort of harassing its own citizens. It’s a cowardly pivot. They’ll allow the digital infrastructure of the West to continue harvesting Nigerian data, provided they get to decide which Nigerians get to use it to complain about the price of fuel or the lack of electricity. It is the ultimate middle-manager move—capitulate to the boss, kick the subordinate.

In the end, this isn't about Sowore, and it certainly isn't about justice. It is about the preservation of a myth. The myth that the men in power are beyond the reach of the common tongue. The amendment of these charges is just another verse in the long, droning hymn of Nigerian bureaucracy—a system designed not to solve problems, but to exhaust the people who point them out. We are left watching a geriatric power structure try to figure out how to navigate a world where they can’t simply ban the printing press, and their solution is to keep amending the paperwork until the prisoner gets tired of waiting for a trial. It’s not governance; it’s a hostage situation where the kidnappers are also the ones writing the laws against kidnapping.