By Bagudu Mohammed
We now live in an age where justice no longer wears only a wig and gown. It wears makeup, faces a camera, and trends in 280 characters. The courtroom has been cloned, first by talk shows, then by the roaring, merciless coliseum of social media. And Nigerians, exhausted by slow institutions and hungry for catharsis, have crowned these platforms as new temples of conflict resolution. Media trials carry the public along, they promise transparency, and they offer reputation damage control with the speed of a livestream. Yet, as sociologist Erving Goffman warned in The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life, once the performance leaves the backstage and becomes public spectacle, control over the narrative is lost. We confuse visibility with vindication, and exposure with closure.
Take the traditional court of law. People still rush there with private wounds because it possesses what Harold Lasswell called the legitimate monopoly of coercion, the force of law, the power to enforce judgment, to protect, to punish. But even when the gavel falls, families rarely return to normal. The dirty linen washed in open court dries into a flag of enduring embarrassment. Research by John Braithwaite on restorative justice shows that public shaming without reintegration deepens stigma rather than healing it. The judgment ends the case but not the conflict. The humiliation lingers like smoke after fire, hunting relationships with ridicule and image crises that no writ of court can vacate.
Now compare that with the media trial, especially the talk show. For celebrities, it is oxygen. They trade pain for relevance, tears for ratings, and trauma for connection. Fans crave intimacy with idols, and the talk show sells it by the minute. Communication scholar Joshua Meyrowitz argued that electronic media collapse the distance between public and private, creating a “middle region” where secrets become currency. So when Kannywood actress Fati Karishima broke down on Gabon Talkshow, narrating betrayal and abuse, the audience wept with her. But tears were all we had. Neither Hadiza Gabon nor the thousands watching possessed the force of law to enforce restitution. The show offered sympathy, perhaps money, but not justice. Worse, it exposed Fati’s vulnerability in ways that could haunt her. Stigma, as Goffman again reminds us, is a social attribute that discredits. Potential admirers may recoil, fearing that loving her means inheriting her public scars. The platform that promised healing also auctioned her pain.
Fati Karishma
Social media takes this even further. It is the court without a judge, the talk show without a moderator, the mob without a leash. Screenshots, videos, and voice notes become exhibits. The public becomes jury, and algorithms become executioners. When Regina Daniels posted family disputes accusing Senator Ned Nwoko of domestic violence, the intention was redress, sympathy, vindication. But can a marriage survive the digital pillory? Conflict scholar Morton Deutsch noted that destructive conflict escalates when parties shift from problem-solving to public blame. The post may win sympathy, but it rarely wins peace. The relationship bleeds in public, and the audience, powerless to arbitrate, consumes the drama like entertainment.
Now the spectacle repeats itself, louder. On June 13, 2026, Hafsat Kamal, wife of businessman Salim Goje, went live on Instagram with screenshots and videos alleging her husband’s infidelity with several women, including Kannywood icon Hadiza Gabon. The chats were intimate, suggestive, unverified. One purportedly showed Hadiza asking Salim to fund a trip to Saudi Arabia. Hafsat also accused Salim’s first wife, Shafa Ardo, of spiritual sabotage to block her from having children. Panic filled the livestream as Hafsat whispered, “Lock the window, lock the door,” claiming intruders were outside. Shafa fired back, denying the allegations and reminding Hafsat that “everything you accuse others of doing happened before you were married.” Salim’s only response was a Fulfulde prayer: “Allah hokka kowa no wada. Amin.” May Allah guide everyone to what is good.
The internet exploded. Some users demanded evidence, echoing media scholar W. Lance Bennett’s warning about the “credibility cascade” where unverified content gains legitimacy through sheer circulation. Others moralized, disappointed that role models had stumbled. Memes, jokes, and commentary flooded timelines, turning alleged trauma into content. Yet Hadiza Gabon, the very host of Gabon Talkshow, a platform where victims unburden themselves for healing has remained silent. The irony is theatrical: the therapist is now the accused, dragged before a court larger and less forgiving than her studio. She has no gavel, no bailiff, no power to subpoena truth. And neither do we. Just as we could not help Fati Karishima beyond tears, we cannot help Hafsat Kamal beyond clicks.
Hadiza Gabon
This is the paradox of what media theorist John Thompson calls “mediated visibility.” It promises empowerment but delivers exposure. It invites counter-narratives, suspicion, and trial by trending. Research from the Pew Research Center in 2024 found that 68% of social media users believe public shaming does more harm than good, yet engagement spikes around scandal. We know it wounds, but we watch anyway. Because in the absence of trusted institutions, the public court feels like the only court left. But as legal scholar Cass Sunstein argues in Republic.com, when judgment is crowd-sourced, it risks becoming a form of cyber vigilantism: swift, emotional, and irreversible.
Worse, the allegations themselves often defy proof. How does one litigate a spiritual attack in the court of Instagram? How does a screenshot prove intent, consent, or context? The burden of proof dissolves, replaced by the burden of popularity. The accuser harms herself first, shrinking public esteem and inviting ridicule. The accused, whether guilty or not, bleeds reputation. And the audience, titillated for a day, moves on, thereby leaving behind digital debris that outlives the conflict.
So what have we built? Not a justice system, but a theatre of wounds. Talk shows and social media offer catharsis without closure, sympathy without solution, virality without vindication. They are thrilling, yes. They are entertaining, undoubtedly. But as conflict management tools, they fail the basic test articulated by Johan Galtung: peace is not merely the absence of violence, but the presence of justice and reconciliation. The public court convicts without trial, the talk show consoles without remedy, and the social media mob forgets without forgiving.
Until we rebuild trust in institutions that can enforce, protect, and reintegrate, not just expose, we will keep mistaking noise for justice, and spectacle for healing. And the next victim will still be left asking the same question Fati Karishima’s tears asked, and Hafsat Kamal’s livestream echoed: now that you’ve heard me, what can you actually do?
Bagudu can be reached via bagudumohammed15197@gmail.com or 07034943575.
