By Dickson Achimugu Musa
I had just survived another day on the battlefield that is the Nigerian roads, where potholes yawn like hungry mouths, and drivers swerve with the recklessness of men who believe in reincarnation. The sun had baked the asphalt into a griddle, and the fumes from a thousand exhaust pipes clung to my lungs like a second skin. My car, bruised and battered from dodging suicidal okadas , finally limped into my compound. I stepped into my house, hoping for the sweet hum of the air conditioner, only to be greeted by the mocking silence of a power outage. NEPA had struck again. But instead of wallowing in despair, I did what every Nigerian does: I peeked through the curtain to see if my neighbor had light. When I saw that his house was just as dark, I felt… relief. Nothing had changed in my own situation, yet I was comforted. Why? Why does shared suffering feel like consolation?
As a Manchester United fan, I have known the ecstasy of victory and the agony of defeat. But nothing quite compares to the joy of watching Liverpool lose to a relegation-threatened side, or seeing Man City crash out of the Champions League, or seeing Leeds United relegated. Arsenal, during the Wenger years, earned their place in our pantheon of rivals, and their misfortunes were toasted like fine wine. Chelsea fans try to force a rivalry with us, but we barely flinch at their triumphs or failures, they are, after all, a small club with money but no history and culture, no mythos. But again, I ask: why does the downfall of others, especially those we dislike, taste so sweet?
This question resurfaced recently when a video of an altercation between Nyesom Wike, the Minister of the Federal Capital Territory, and Lieutenant A.M. Yerima of the Nigerian Navy went viral. Wike, known for his brashness, was seen berating the young officer over access to a disputed plot of land. Yerima, calm and composed, stood his ground, citing orders from his superiors. The internet exploded. Memes flew. Nigerians, across tribal and political lines, found common cause in their glee. For once, the powerful had been checked, and they rejoiced. But again, why?
At first glance, it feels like a uniquely Nigerian response, born of decades of impunity, inequality, and the daily humiliations of life under a dysfunctional state. But the truth is deeper, older, and more universal. The Germans call it schadenfreude – joy in another’s sorrow. The Japanese say, “The misfortunes of others taste like honey.” The French speak of joie maligne, the Danes of skadefryd, the Dutch of leedvermaak. In Hebrew, it’s simcha la-ed; in Mandarin, xìngzāilèhuò; in Serbo-Croat, zlùradōst; and in Russian, zloradstvo. The Greeks had epichairekakia, and the Romans, malevolentia. Even the Melanesians of Papua New Guinea have Banbanam, a cultural practice of mocking rivals, sometimes even after death.
This is not a Nigerian thing. It is a human thing. A dark, primal instinct that finds satisfaction not just in our own success, but in the failure of others, especially those we perceive as arrogant, powerful, or unjust. As Nietzsche once wrote, “To see others suffer does one good… To make others suffer even more so.” It is, as the Bible says, a reflection of the heart of man – “desperately wicked, who can know it?”
The Wike-Yerima episode was more than a viral moment. It was a mirror. In our laughter, we glimpsed our pain. In our glee, our powerlessness. And in our schadenfreude, our shared humanity.
*Achimugu is a professor of Pharmacological Biochemistry and Molecular Biology
