Handshake Above the Elbow: The Abuse of Privilege and the Assault on Justice in Nigeria

By Livy-Elcon Emereonye

A handshake is a universal gesture of goodwill. It is a pact, a recognition of mutual respect, a contract between equals. It is firm yet restrained, a symbolic reminder that trust has limits. The hand is meant to clasp the hand—no more, no less. But when a handshake stretches beyond the palm, creeping above the elbow, it mutates into intrusion. What was once courtesy becomes trespass, and what was once trust becomes violation.

This imagery captures with brutal accuracy the abuse of privilege that plagues Nigeria. Our tragedy as a nation is not only that we are diverse but that too many have weaponized diversity for selfish gain. Again and again, concessions have been stretched into conquest, tolerance has been misread as weakness, and generosity has been exploited as foolishness. The result is a vicious cycle of overreach and retaliation.

Privilege is never meant to be absolute; it is always conditional. It exists to foster harmony, not domination. Yet Nigeria’s political and ethnic elites have converted privilege into entitlement. Give them trust, they plunder the treasury. Grant them power, they terrorize opponents. Allow them freedom, they persecute others. It is the story of a handshake gone wrong—grasping not just the hand but the elbow, and then reaching for the jugular.

Nothing demonstrates this better than the unfolding assault on the Igbo people in Lagos State. Here lies the most glaring example of how tolerance and hospitality have been repaid with treachery, how coexistence has been converted into conquest, and how silence from the corridors of power is enabling a dangerous slide into ethnic apartheid.

Lagos is not the property of one ethnic group. It is a cosmopolitan city built by the sweat and sacrifices of many peoples. Its ports, markets, industries, and transport systems carry the fingerprints of Hausa, Yoruba, Igbo, and countless others. Among these, the Igbo have played a uniquely pivotal role, turning the city into a hub of commerce. From Alaba International to Ladipo, from Balogun to Computer Village, Igbo enterprise has pumped lifeblood into the Lagos economy, creating jobs, raising revenues, and modernizing trade.

And yet, in return for this immense contribution, many Igbo traders and investors face harassment, targeted demolitions, and calculated intimidation. Their markets are mysteriously gutted by “accidental” fires. Their shops are demolished under the guise of urban renewal, while other areas are conveniently spared. Their political participation is sabotaged by orchestrated violence during elections, with machete-wielding thugs warning them to “go back to their states.”

This is not coincidence. It is not urban planning. It is not patriotism. It is a handshake above the elbow—privilege abused, trust violated, hospitality spat upon.

There is a dangerous narrative being promoted by certain Yoruba political actors: that Lagos is a Yoruba property and that Igbo people must remain “guests” with no claim to equal rights. This poisonous thinking is the root of the attacks. It is a narrative of exclusion, domination, and calculated humiliation.

But here is the hypocrisy: Lagos became what it is not because one ethnic group monopolized it, but because multiple groups poured their blood and sweat into it. To deny the Igbo their place in Lagos is to deny reality. To burn their markets while pretending it is “accidental” is to declare economic war. To bar them from voting is to strangle democracy.

This is not cultural pride—it is ethnic arrogance. It is not politics—it is bigotry. It is not governance—it is gangsterism. And like a handshake above the elbow, it cannot end well. For every inch of unfairness breeds resentment, and every act of overreach invites eventual backlash.

A bird cried at night, the child died in the morning!

What makes the situation more sinister is the silence of the Tinubu-led Federal Government. Bola Ahmed Tinubu, himself a Yoruba man from Lagos, occupies the highest seat of power. He has the constitutional duty to protect all Nigerians, to defend justice, and to ensure equity. Yet on this matter, his lips are sealed.

His silence is not neutral—it is complicit. To watch while one ethnic group is persecuted is to endorse the persecution. To pretend not to see the destruction of Igbo businesses in Lagos is to approve it by omission. To hear the cries of disenfranchised voters and remain unmoved is to betray the very foundation of democracy.

Tinubu’s silence is a graveyard silence. It is the stillness of injustice, the quiet that masks oppression, the calm before an inevitable storm. He knows, as all Nigerians know, that the Igbo are being deliberately targeted. He knows that their economic empire in Lagos is being dismantled under the guise of law and order. He knows that their voices at the ballot box are being muzzled. Yet he chooses silence, calculating that power is safer when truth is suppressed.

But here lies the danger: silence is never permanent. Graveyards are silent, but silence does not mean peace. Beneath the silence, anger festers. Beneath the silence, bitterness grows. And when it erupts, it will not be a handshake—it will be a fist.

The attack on the Igbo in Lagos affects more than just the Igbo community. It is a Nigerian problem. Today it is Igbo traders in Lagos; tomorrow it may be Hausa herders in the East, Yoruba businessmen in the North, or minority groups crushed by the majorities. Injustice anywhere becomes injustice everywhere.

When privilege is abused, the center cannot hold. When tolerance is stretched beyond endurance, society fractures. And when government refuses to act, people lose faith in the system and seek their own justice. That is the recipe for anarchy.

The lesson of the handshake above the elbow is simple yet profound. Boundaries exist for a reason. Trust exists within limits. Privilege must never become entitlement.

The Yoruba who assault the Igbo in Lagos must remember: you cannot monopolize a city that was built with collective sacrifice. You cannot prosper by destroying those who sustain your economy. You cannot claim ownership of what history made common. To do so is to overreach, to trespass, to grip above the elbow—and in so doing, invite ruin.

The Tinubu government must also learn: silence in the face of injustice is complicity. A President who looks away while citizens are attacked loses the moral right to govern. If justice is not restored, if the persecution of the Igbo is not checked, then the silence of today will become the chaos of tomorrow.

Nigeria stands at a dangerous crossroads. We are a nation bound not by homogeneity but by diversity. Our survival depends on respecting boundaries, on honouring trust, and on curbing the greed of overreach.

A handshake should remain at the palm—firm, respectful, sufficient. But in Lagos today, the handshake has climbed above the elbow. Privilege is being abused. Hospitality is being betrayed. Businesses are being burned. Voters are being disenfranchised. And the government sits in graveyard silence.

This path leads only to destruction. For when people are pushed too far, when privilege is stretched into oppression, when silence greets cries of injustice, the palm will turn into a fist.

Wisdom demands that no one should turn his home into a battle ground.

Let Nigeria beware: a handshake above the elbow is not a gesture of friendship—it is the warning sign of collapse.

Let us avoid being guilty of the same faults we criticize in others; let us refrain from establishing a harmful precedent today that could harm us in the future; let us not, for any reason, ruin what sustains our lives.

When a child’s mother gets home from the market before anyone else, he ought to remember that other mothers are still making their way back.

What goes around, comes around. The consequences of your actions will ultimately find their way back to you. If this federation is to survive, it has to be fully complete.

Karma can be quite harsh!