By Abdulhamid Abdullahi Aliyu
Politics often produces strange moments, but every now and then a controversy emerges that says more about a society than it first appears. The recent uproar in Kano over viral images of women displaying red underwear allegedly linked to supporters of the state government is one such moment. What began as social media comedy quickly evolved into a serious conversation about political culture, digital misinformation, public dignity and the growing danger of supporter excesses in Nigeria’s democracy.
At the centre of the controversy are competing narratives. One version claims the act was staged by enthusiastic supporters seeking to mock the red symbolism associated with Senator Rabiu Musa Kwankwaso and the Kwankwasiyya movement. Another insists no government official procured or distributed such items, and that the women involved purchased them independently as a form of protest. A third line of argument points to manipulated or AI-generated images, especially those showing Governor Abba Kabir Yusuf’s photograph printed on the underwear.
Whichever version one believes, the broader lesson lies elsewhere. In the age of instant virality, perception often outruns fact. Once provocative visuals hit the internet, they begin to live independent lives. By the time clarifications arrive, opinions are already formed, jokes already shared, and reputations already bruised. That is the brutal logic of modern information warfare.
This is why the Kano episode should not be dismissed as mere comedy. It highlights how politics in Nigeria is increasingly shifting from policy contests to symbolic warfare. Rather than debates over education, healthcare, water supply, youth unemployment or urban planning, public attention is hijacked by spectacles designed to humiliate opponents and energise online loyalists. The result is a shrinking space for serious governance discourse.
Kano is especially vulnerable to this kind of politics because of its unique political history. The state is one of Nigeria’s most politically conscious arenas, where colours, slogans, movements and personalities carry deep emotional weight. The red cap is not merely fashion; it represents a political identity. Any attempt to ridicule that identity will naturally provoke backlash. Supporters may consider such mockery clever mobilisation, but politics rooted in humiliation often boomerangs.
There is also an uncomfortable gender dimension to the saga. Across Nigeria, women are too often reduced to props in political performances—assembled for rallies, tokenised for optics, or used to dramatise partisan messages. Whether voluntary or orchestrated, any political theatre that places women at the centre of ridicule or sensationalism raises ethical questions. Political communication should elevate citizens, not use them as instruments of mockery.
For the Kano State Government, the greater challenge may not be the incident itself but how it is managed. Governments today do not only govern roads and budgets; they govern narratives. Silence can sometimes be wise, but in a digital environment, prolonged silence can also create a vacuum into which falsehood rushes. A vacuum of credible information often becomes fertile ground for stereotypes.
That is why communication experts increasingly advise a strategy of rapid clarification and narrative replacement. Rather than angrily chasing every rumour, a government can calmly provide facts, support independent fact-checking, and then redirect public attention to measurable achievements. If the public conversation is trapped on underwear for days, then governance has already lost valuable oxygen.
There is wisdom in the suggestion that the state should flood the public space with verifiable stories of schools rehabilitated, hospitals improved, roads completed, youth programmes launched, and social interventions delivered. This is not propaganda when the facts are genuine. It is simply the discipline of agenda-setting: ensuring governance performance is louder than viral nonsense.
Equally important is internal message control among supporters. Many governments underestimate the damage their unofficial defenders can cause. Overzealous loyalists often believe they are helping, while in reality, they create liabilities. Mockery, coded insults and reckless satire may thrill partisan circles, but they alienate undecided citizens and embarrass the leaders they claim to defend.
This is not a Kano problem alone. Across Nigeria, politicians increasingly face a paradox: their strongest online supporters can also become their biggest reputational risk. In a hyperconnected society, one foolish stunt can overshadow months of policy work. That reality demands more disciplined political engagement from parties and movements nationwide.
The final lesson is simple. Leadership should be measured by competence, compassion and delivery—not by who wins the latest viral skirmish. Kano deserves national attention for industrial revival, educational progress, urban reform and social development, not for underwear controversies. If this episode prompts a rethink of political conduct, media literacy and supporter behaviour, then an embarrassing moment may yet produce a useful correction.
Democracy is serious business. When politics becomes a permanent performance, everyone eventually loses.
Abdulhamid Abdullahi Aliyu is a journalist and syndicate writer based in Abuja.