“Social media is a terrorist organisation that we must deal with. Security agencies must deal with this terrorist organisation called social media.” These are the words of the Sultan of Sokoto, Muhammad Sa’ad Abubakar III. He expressed them without irony. Without hesitation, and in a disdainful way. A man of his stature, a religious leader and a cultural symbol, ought to possess the presence of mind to recognise social media as platforms that give expression to freedom of speech. He should have grasped the truth that lends depth to the timeless adage, “let a thousand flowers bloom.” Where else does speech bloom like flowers, if not on social media? Yet, as a former soldier, he retreats into the shadows of a bygone era in which tongues were silenced by the terror of jackboots.

These are not words to take lightly. But they are words to tear down. Because they are dangerous. Because they are false. Let’s begin with the word “terrorist.” It is not a metaphor. It is not a joke or a jest. It is a loaded term which describes the deliberate use of violence. It brings to mind scenes of carnage; bombs detonating, blood spilt, fear spreading. The state must act. Decisively. Brutally. Without question. To call social media a terrorist organisation is to declare war on freedom of expression. To arm the state against citizens. To bay for blood. That is reckless. That is irresponsible. Unforgivable.

The Sultan did not misspeak. He said what he meant. His words betrayed the truth. Not about social media. But about elite power that requires unaccountability and commitment to deploying power unethically and irresponsibly; the fear it has of scrutiny; the panic it feels when citizens speak out; and the irritation it nurses when citizens ask questions and demand answers. When the truth is not handed down from thrones, altars, minarets and high horses, but pulled from hashtags and memes.

That is the real threat. Not terror. Not chaos. Not peddled vice. But truth and light. The profit of liberation gained from the unfettered pursuit of freedom.

Our elite detest dissent. It offends them. They consider it an insult. A personal affront. It reminds them they are not gods or demigods. That their words and actions can be questioned. In bygone eras, palaces were sacred. So too were state houses, military barracks, mosques, and churches. These places stood above everything else, hallowed, untouchable, while far removed from the prying eyes of ordinary citizens. They were the hideous citadels of power where decisions were made behind the Swarovski crystal curtains, and where authority spoke in hushed, unquestioned tones. To gaze too long at them was insolence; to speak against them, sacrilege. They were realms where power walked in robes, stilettos and boots; and citizens stood outside, voiceless, and distant. But social media broke the glass. Citizens now peer in. They laugh. They speak. They record. They reveal. No one is safe. Not even the Sultan.

That is why he is angry.

Yes, social media can be noisy. It can be false. It can be cruel. Lies travel fast. Opinions are mistaken for facts. That is true. But that is not terror. That is speech. And the answer to bad speech is not censorship. It is more speech. Better speech. Civil speech. But the Sultan does not want better speech. He desires silence. He desires the repressive order. He desires the return of control. And that is the real crime.

What the Sultan canvases is not just absurd, it is dangerous. He wants the security agencies to “deal with” social media. He wants state controls that dehumanise citizens. He seeks to objectify citizens. He insists on the state interfering with citizens’ lives to the point of meaninglessness, the same way that the bureaucracy interfered in the life of Joseph K., the protagonist of Franz Kafka’s novel, The Trial. All of this points to state violence. Arrests. Harassment. Surveillance. Intimidation. Censorship. This is not new. He is taking the leaf out of the old playbook. From the Abacha years.

Then it was radio. Now it is TikTok, Facebook and Twitter. The tyrant’s enemies are always the voices of the citizens. The Sultan forgets history. He forgets that our country was made better by dissent. It was the pen that challenged military rule, showcasing its might over the sword. It was the students who shouted down SAP. It was pro-democracy activists who forced the handover in 1999. And it was the EndSARS generation that shook the state. None of this came from the throne. None came from the pulpit. It came from the streets. From social media. From people who sat in the “comfort of their homes” and dared to speak. And that, Your Eminence, is not terrorism. That is democracy.

Let’s be clear. Social media is not perfect. But it has changed the rules of governance. It has exposed corruption. It has revealed abuses. It has made room for the art. For music. Has the Sultan listened to Eedris Abdulkarim’s “Tell Your Papa”? For protest. It has given the voiceless a voice. It carried the #EndSARS movement forward. It shamed police brutality. It exposed fake clerics. It recorded ballot theft. It connected our citizens at home and abroad. It amplified missing persons. Were it not for the social media, who would have known that Quadri Alabi Yusuf, the young boy whose iconic “Baba O-y-o-y-o” pose in front of Obi’s campaign convoy became the emblem of our country’s political mood in 2022, was wasting away in prison as a victim of envy and framed by those unsettled by his sudden ascent to visibility? Without the digital chorus that raised his name, he might have remained just another forgotten story buried beneath the silence of injustice. And that, more than anything else, is why he wants the social media dead.

Let’s not pretend. The Sultan’s disdain is selective. When elites use social media to promote themselves, it is fine. When their children flaunt wealth on Instagram, it is culture. When governors trend on Twitter, it is democracy. When preachers go viral, it is revival. But when ordinary citizens speak, when they criticise, complain, challenge the status quo, it suddenly becomes terrorism. This is hypocrisy. This is tyranny.

A man in the Sultan’s position ought to be wiser. More cautious. More tempered. He is a symbol. He is a voice of tradition. Of balance. Of peace. He should not be calling for war on words. He should not be urging the state to muzzle free speech. He should be calming tempers. Moderating discourses. Guiding the nation through hard truths rather than lament. A wail from the throne. A bitter outburst from a man whose pride appears to have been punctured. That is not leadership; it is failure.

The enemy is not speech. It is poverty. It is bad governance. It is police brutality. It is the dead healthcare delivery system. It is out-of-school children. It is banditry. It is oil theft. It is the impunity of the elite. It is religious bigotry. It is ethno-political greed. Social media did not create these problems. It merely reveals them. It forces the mirror into the face of elite power. Does elite power like what it sees? Tell me.

If the Sultan must use the word “terror,” let him apply it correctly. Terror is the bandits terrorising Zike, Kimakpa, Bokkos, Bassa, Riyom, Irigwe, and the Highlands of the plateau. It is the mindless fanatic who pulled the gun on the young female doctor, Chinelo Megafu, and murdered her on the Abuja-Kaduna train. It is Otobi, a village sacked in Benue State. It is Enugu-Ezike sieged by suspected Fulani herdsmen. That is terror. Real. Bloody. Unrelenting.

But tweets? Posts? Memes? These are not terror. They are the sound of democracy breathing. For a long time, our country lacked its own agora, the public square for conversations. No democratic spaces with real access. No honest debates. No real access. The elite spoke to themselves. Citizens merely listened. But now, citizens can speak. That is the true fear. That is what the Sultan cannot abide. A world where pedigree no longer insulates. Where status is no longer sacred. Where truth is no longer owned by the few. That world is here. It is loud. It is messy. But it is real. And it is not going away soon.

History will not be kind to the Sultan or his words. He will not be quoted with reverence. He and his words will be mocked. He will be remembered as a spiritual leader unready for the present. Unwilling to embrace the future. He had a chance to show wisdom. He chose fear. He had a chance to inspire. He chose scorn. He had a chance to teach. He chose to scold.

Finally, to the citizens of our country, do not be afraid. You all have the right to speak your minds, to draw attention to the conditions you live in, to ask difficult questions, and to challenge those in power. Speaking out isn’t rebellion; it’s participation in public life. The world has moved on. The monopoly on truth no longer lies with age or title. Authority is no longer protected by closed doors or hidden rituals. It’s contested every day on social media and in ordinary conversations. That isn’t disrespect; it’s the evolution of civic life. Our elite must understand this. Not every critic is an enemy. Not every dissenting voice is a threat. Suppressing ideas with force doesn’t create order; it breeds resistance.

You cannot achieve peace by detaining your way, or silence by shooting your way. Our government must understand this and stop treating free speech like a crime. Words carry weight, especially when spoken from the throne. Calling speech “terrorism” invites the state to crush what it should protect. A leader should open spaces for expression, not call for their shutdown. Influence should be used to build trust, not to incite fear. The Sultan, who should know better, must understand this point. Truth is not the enemy. And no matter how uncomfortable it feels to those in power, the truth must be allowed to speak.

That is not terrorism. It is how a country and its free citizens breathe.

Abdul Mahmud is a human rights attorney in Abuja