Classed, Visible, and Under Fire? On Privilege and Nigerian Activism

There is something about the word “classed” that unsettles people. It lands heavier than it should, as though what it carries is an accusation rather than a description. On its own, it points to an obvious reality: access, comfort, distance from certain kinds of struggle. The discomfort usually comes later, when people begin to consider what that reality implies.

That tension surfaced again some weeks back during a conversation on Nigerian Twitter (X) about piracy, a discussion that soon evolved into something more layered. It started, as these things often do, with a simple statement. Jola Ayeye of ISWIS tweeted that piracy is theft. Clear, factual, difficult to dispute. But the reaction was immediate and, in many cases, sharp.

Much of the response focused less on the claim itself and more on who was making it. Jola was described as “classed,” her position framed as evidence of a gap between her reality and that of people who rely on pirated books and films. Others extended the critique to women in similar circles —  Imoteda, Uloma, Adesuwa Giwa-Osagie, all of whom criticized piracy — suggesting that their activism had limits they were unwilling to acknowledge.

These reactions were over the top at points, but that is typical of Nigerian social media. More interesting was the class solidarity that emerged during the debate. The idea that piracy is theft and the fact that many Nigerians cannot consistently afford books, films, or subscriptions, are truths that can coexist. The tension arises when those truths are forced into conflict, as though class is the only lens through which activism is understood and contested.

The conversation, however, didn’t stop at piracy. It highlighted how people respond to being located within a class structure. There was a noticeable reluctance to engage with the idea of being “classed” at all. People who are usually attentive to language and aware of how to speak carefully about marginalized communities seemed suddenly unwilling to extend that same sensitivity to discussions about class. The suggestion that privilege shapes perspective was treated as an overreach.

Part of this comes down to how money is handled socially. Among many Nigerians from relatively comfortable backgrounds, there is an unspoken rule around wealth: you don’t announce it, you don’t dwell on it, you certainly don’t make it a defining part of your identity. It is supposed to sit quietly in the background. When someone else names it, it can feel like a breach of etiquette, even when it is accurate.

The thinking is easy to trace: piracy is theft, that is an objective fact. But stating it plainly can feel like a dismissal of the very real reason people pirate books and films—they cannot afford the original. Being told that this perspective may be shaped by privilege can feel like a call-out. That discomfort settles in, and rather than sit with it, the instinct is to disengage, to sidestep the social undertones altogether.

This is where the activist blind spot appears, and where ego begins to matter. Activism, at its core, seeks to address imbalances and injustice. But the privileges activists aim to dismantle do not disappear because one is aware of them. Privilege shapes their perspective, limits their experience, and sometimes dulls their sensitivity unconsciously.

Visibility complicates matters further. Someone else could have made the same statement Jola did — a quieter, less visible figure—and likely escaped without backlash. But the public nature of activism associated with groups like FemCo means that its most visible members are held to a higher standard. The criticism they receive can be unending, sometimes mean-spirited, and often impossible to satisfy, but it is not entirely inexplicable.

Privilege in Nigeria is also shaped by a culture of silence. Well-mannered, “classed” Nigerians are often coy about wealth. Sociologist Paul Schervish calls this the “money taboo.” Like many deeply ingrained social rules, it is rarely stated outright but widely understood. He breaks it down into three dimensions: intergenerational—families do not discuss money in detail; public — wealth is not openly disclosed; and social—money is not discussed among peers to avoid discomfort or embarrassment. The logic is moral: a desire not to appear arrogant or to look down on others. The effect is that wealth is quietly held, rarely named.

This extends into behaviour. People avoid identifying as wealthy and often feel intense discomfort when others do it for them. The phenomenon has been discussed several times on the ISWIS podcast itself. Understanding it does not prevent missteps when confronted with it in real time.

Today, sidestepping that discomfort is even harder. The social code around money is shifting. Visibility makes privacy difficult. If your parents are prominent, if your education is public, if your life is online, people will know where you fall. In a country like Nigeria, that visibility makes you an easy target.

So what does “classed” mean here, now that we see how visibility and privilege operate? Monied, privileged, but insulated. The term has evolved alongside phrases like “trust fund kid” to describe people whose financial background acts as both armour and safety net in a country defined by economic precarity. Because poverty is widespread, “extreme wealth” becomes relative. Having a driver can mark you as wealthy. Studying abroad can mark you as wealthy. The specifics matter less than the contrast. Nigeria’s middle class has thinned to the point where even basic stability can read as excess.

Once that label is applied, it shapes perception. Your words are no longer just your words, they are filtered through what people believe your life looks like. This is intensified by the visibility of wealth in popular culture. Entertainers, influencers, and spectacle-driven public figures do not observe the “money taboo.” Against that backdrop, even those who are not fuelled by spectacle become easy targets for projection.

Jola of  ISWIS may not flaunt wealth in the overt way that Adenike Adeleke might, for instance, but her visibility places her within reach of the same frustration. A simple statement—that piracy is theft—became a flashpoint because it collided with a deeper, more sensitive reality. Nigerians are poor. Many who love books and films cannot afford them. That is understood. But acknowledging this does not erase the original point. Piracy affects creators. It affects writers, filmmakers, and artists, many of whom are navigating the same economic strain.

This is where the conversation requires honesty. Poverty, or defending the poor, does not automatically confer moral superiority, nor does recognizing privilege constitute an attack. What matters most is context. It is possible to be harsh, dismissive, or unempathetic even in the defence of a perfectly defensible group.