By Hauwau Shehu Maikeffi
Imagine this: You pick up your phone, open the camera, and pour your heart out about the struggles you and millions of others face daily skyrocketing food prices, stagnant wages, the weight of simply existing. You hit post. And then? The world shifts beneath your feet.
For Ushie Rita Uguamaye, better known online as Raye, this wasn’t just imagination. It became her reality. A simple TikTok video expressing her frustration with Nigeria’s economic situation and the Tinubu-led administration catapulted her into the center of a nationwide debate on power, control, and the price of free speech.
She was summoned by her National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) Local Government Inspector’s office in Eti-Osa, Lagos. The reason? The video. The one where she spoke candidly about the cost of living crisis and government inefficiency. The one that, as far as some were concerned, should have never been posted in the first place.
But here’s where it gets interesting. She didn’t go alone. Nigerian activist Omoyele Sowore, lawyers, and fellow activists stood beside her, turning what could have been an isolated act of intimidation into a public showdown. Except—when they arrived, the NYSC officials who had issued the summons were nowhere to be found. The absence was loud, a silent message wrapped in bureaucracy.
And then, as expected, the internet did its thing.
The moment news of her ordeal broke, Nigerians online split into two camps. On one side, people hailed Raye as a voice of the people, a young woman bold enough to say what many are thinking but too afraid to voice. The hashtag #ProtectRaye trended, as users accused the government of trying to silence dissent through intimidation.
“We can’t even speak anymore? Is this North Korea?” one user posted.
“NYSC is supposed to be about national service, not silencing corps members,” another argued.
Groups like Amnesty International weighed in, condemning any act that could be seen as suppressing free speech.
But there was another side to the conversation. A segment of social media dismissed her actions, arguing that she had crossed a line. Some called her disrespectful, others warned that NYSC members should focus on serving their country, not criticizing it.
“She should finish her service year first before talking politics,” one tweet read.
“Freedom of speech is not freedom from consequences,” another user wrote, justifying the NYSC’s response.
And then there were those who didn’t even bother debating her right to speak but questioned why the government seemed more invested in silencing critics than fixing the issues being criticized.
The silence from NYSC officials and government representatives has left lingering questions. If the goal was simply to issue a warning, why not show up? Was the intention to punish her, or simply to scare others into silence?
And, more importantly, where does this leave us?
Because this isn’t just about Raye. It’s about what happens the next time a young person picks up their phone and dares to speak about their lived reality. It’s about the message being sent to every Nigerian who watches this unfold: Be careful what you say, or you might be next.
And so we sit at a crossroads. Do we accept a reality where voicing dissatisfaction could mean getting summoned, intimidated, or worse? Or do we push back, not in reckless defiance, but in firm insistence that speech, especially speech born from lived experiences should never be a crime?
For now, Raye is back home, but the conversation isn’t over. If anything, it’s just beginning.
