The Trouble With How We Respond to Accusations

On the 13th of November, Twitter user Maki (@makispoke) posted a series of statements that quickly became the centre of online discussion. She began with a vague but pointed observation about wealthy “progressives” who mistreat domestic staff. Soon after, she narrowed her focus to a particular individual; someone she described as misogynistic, someone whose public alignment with prominent feminists functioned as a kind of moral camouflage. Finally, she accused this unnamed figure of sleeping with his subordinates.

It did not take long for the public to make the connection. By the time Maki hosted a Twitter Space later in the day and spoke openly about the person in question, many had concluded she meant Ezra Olubi, the Paystack co-founder and Chief Technological Officer (CTO). Her allegations about his behaviour toward domestic workers surfaced alongside older tweets of his that re-entered circulation: posts referencing sexual violence, predatory dynamics, and bestiality. They had existed online for years, largely unexamined, until this moment created the conditions for re-evaluation. Olubi has since deactivated the associated X account.

Paystack responded swiftly, in a statement: “Paystack is aware of the allegations involving our Co-founder, Ezra Olubi,” the company announced. As of November 13, 2025, he had been suspended pending an independent investigation. The company emphasised that it would not comment further until the review concluded.

But as attention grew, something else happened — something familiar within Nigeria’s digital culture. The scrutiny veered away from Ezra and landed on the women around him. His “powerful feminist” friends became the focal point: their silence questioned, their character debated, their politics dissected. Olubi was the one accused of misconduct, yet Uloma, Kiki Mordi, Ozzy Etomi, and other Nigerian feminists were the ones trending.

This shift is not surprising. There is a well-worn social reflex that holds women accountable for the actions of men, even when these women neither participated in nor were aware of the behaviour in question. It is an instinct shaped by misogyny: the expectation that women must anticipate, prevent, or publicly condemn the misdeeds of the men in their orbit, while the men themselves are granted fuller complexity and more generous timelines for explanation. It is a pattern that often disregards the possibility that these women may be processing the same shock as everyone else.

Even Maki, the person who spoke up, became a target of suspicion. Why now? Why didn’t she speak earlier? Why maintain a relationship with him at all? These questions flatten the reality of how people navigate power, proximity, and information. They also reveal how quickly empathy recedes when the person speaking does not fit the public’s preferred template of victimhood. Maki’s wealth, her politics, her online confrontations — all of it became grounds to question her credibility, as though someone with a complicated public persona forfeits the right to call out harm. It is still a form of victim-blaming, even when framed as rational inquiry.

To be clear, a level of hypocrisy does exist in this situation. It is legitimate to note that when people who have publicly championed vocal accountability, especially in situations involving sexual harassment, appear hesitant in moments that demand it. But social media is rarely the place to parse nuance. Announcements of condemnation are expected immediately, without emotional or temporal space for processing. The delay becomes a moral failure, not a human one. And because these so-called “powerful feminists” have often upheld this standard, there is little grace left to be bestowed on them now that they find themselves in this unseemly position.

The dynamics at play also reveal how online spaces create distorted perceptions of influence and delusions of grandeur, rewarding hardheaded certainty and the performance of ideological purity. People with large platforms can be placed, willingly or not, on moral pedestals. Once there, they are expected to respond to every controversy with prompt clarity. The pressure is immense and, often, unrealistic. And when the people on these pedestals face circumstances that do not fit neatly into their own publicly expressed values — such as learning of wrongdoing allegedly committed by a friend — they become vulnerable to a kind of punitive fascination.

While these women bear this misplaced scrutiny, important discussions are being overlooked. The Ezra situation highlights a broader issue: how identity, class, and social proximity intersect to shape public perception. Men with heteronormative worldviews, who present themselves as progressive — or who cultivate closeness with marginalised groups — can benefit from an aura of moral sophistication. It can dull suspicion and shield behaviour that would otherwise raise alarms. This dynamic deserves examination, but instead of interrogating it, much of the public energy has been directed at asking why “powerful feminists” have not denounced him online. The focus drifts from the allegations to the optics.

Nigeria’s culture of money worship compounds this tendency. Olubi’s wealth, the visibility of Paystack’s success, and his self-styled persona — articulate, intellectual, confidently detached — have long shaped how he is received. Wealth in Nigeria often functions as a form of insulation, granting people deference independent of their values or conduct. This reverence extends to the people perceived to exist in the same social tier. Thus, friends of the accused become stand-ins for institutional authority, as though they wield power simply by proximity.

But internet power is not real power. Having a large platform does not prevent a person from committing wrongs, does not equip someone to manage allegations of this scale, nor does it obligate them to perform a public ritual of denunciation. Yet the expectation persists because online culture often confuses visibility with responsibility, and personal proximity with complicity.

All of this leads to a deeper question about the purpose of these public reactions. What is gained from turning the women around Ezra into the primary subjects of interrogation? What does it achieve to demand a performance of disgust from them, while the substance of the allegations risks becoming secondary to the spectacle?

What we now have is a dilution of seriousness. A situation involving allegations of misconduct — complex, sensitive, and requiring careful examination — becomes an opportunity for punitive entertainment. The focus shifts from accountability to performance, from the accused to the people adjacent to him. And in doing so, it inadvertently reinforces the very misogyny many claim to resist.

The summary of the matter is straightforward: Ezra Olubi is the person accused. The women around him are not. They should not be conscripted into absorbing the public’s outrage or displaced frustration. This situation demands solemnity, not deflection and certainly not spectacle. The scrutiny belongs with the allegations themselves and the structures that allowed this dynamic to unfold, not with the women who did not commit the harm.