Iām one of those who firmly believe that we live in a society that has normalised the glorification of sudden wealth – no matter how suspicious – because we fear being labelled envious. We’ve reached a point where the mere act of asking questions feels like a moral offence. So people continue to amass wealth through murky, dubious means, and rather than probe, society kneels to them.
This is why I have little sympathy for those who are uncomfortable with the insinuations surrounding TikToker Rahama Saidu, following her flamboyant announcement of a new luxury car. My concern isn’t gendered. It has nothing to do with the fact that she’s a woman. The rumours surrounding her are rooted in the ecosystem of digital celebrity status she occupies.
Before she emerged with a GLK and a fully-stocked shop, her story was known. A young woman from a modest background expelled from a health college for excessive “indecent” TikToking. I actually criticised her expulsion at the time because it was a heavy-handed and an unimaginative response to the hyper-expression of a Gen-Z girl riding the waves of internet fame.
Then came the sudden money. No explanations, just celebrations. A car here, a business there, an Umrah thrown in. For someone who has consistently and willingly shared her personal life online, people naturally expected some sort of narrative, even if it were a fib. But she offered nothing. People, having watched her journey from struggle to splendour, connected the dots themselves. They used the digital coin “Fintopio” to suggest a bursting of a part of the body for it. It was as funny as it was creative. But it’s what it’s.
And here’s the crux of the matter: when a relatively famous person, especially one who shares their lifestyle suddenly acquires wealth, it is reasonable for the public to ask questions. It may not always be fair, but it is inevitable. With fame comes responsibility. Had Rahama simply said, “I got lucky with digital trading” or “a benefactor believed in my dream,” the air would have been somewhat less hostile.
In todayās digital economy, you can craft a believable hustle story in less than 60 seconds. But she didn’t. Instead, she mocked the allegations. I’ve seen at least two of her videos where she casually referenced “Fintopio” with a giggle, as though the rumours were part of her content strategy.
If she were my sister, I’d have advised her to take control of the narrative. Say something, anything, just say something to anchor her success in a story. Those who would believe would believe, and those who wouldn’t, wouldn’t. It’s for the record. But don’t leave the field open to malicious assumptions. Silence, in the face of damaging rumours, is not neutrality. It is a form of complicity.
Humans often judge others based on the moral yardsticks they present. If you’ve built your public persona on openness, then secrecy especially around wealth comes with allegations. The refusal to clarify gives oxygen to accusations. And while it may not make the allegations true, it makes them stick.
That said, I was genuinely disturbed by recent events, particularly the burning of her shop. No one deserves that. It was a violent and cowardly act. But even that incident is steeped in ambiguity.
Some reports claim she had already moved her wares out before the fire. This suggests the possibility of self-sabotage to control the fall-out. If true, that would be a strange cunning move. After all, it was a rented shop.
But if someone else lit the match, it points at our society’s pattern of responding to moral panic with violence. None of us should celebrate it, because it could happen to anyone. It has happened to people like Rarara before over political feuds. It could happen to anyone. Literally anyone, regardless of where you stand in the usually charged Kano’s political atmosphere.
Unless proven that she’s behind the burning of the shop, this action is the bitterest expression of envy. And that should worry us more than her wealth ever did.
But besides all these, I think there are some lessons. That video she did criticising the Kano government for what officials of the state agency did was misguided. You can express grievances with the action of public officials without making it look like a calculated political decision.
Another key takeaway is the importance of understanding and navigating one’s environment wisely. If I have a well-known business in places like Kano, I would try as much as possible to stay away from being politically expressive or aligning myself with major political actors of the state. It’s not cowardice. It’s self-preservation.
Our rights matter, yes, but survival often depends on strategy. We can’t change people’s behaviour overnight, but we can be choose to be cautious in the ways we can.
- Aliyu Jalal lives in Abuja
