WHEN DID WE STOP BEING HUMAN?

By Princess Funsho Sumanu

Somewhere in Jos, a young man took his last breath surrounded by people.
Not in a hospital.
Not in the comforting presence of family and friends.
But in the midst of a crowd.

A crowd that had gathered not to protect him, not to seek the truth, not to offer help, but to watch.

Some watched in silence. Some shouted. Others recorded.
And that image has refused to leave my mind.

Like millions of Nigerians, I have followed the disturbing reports surrounding the death of a young man accused of stealing an iPhone. While investigations and facts must be allowed to take their course, the incident raises questions that go far beyond the circumstances of his death.

It forces us to confront a painful reality about who we are becoming as a people.
When did accusation become a death sentence?
When did suspicion become enough reason to deny another human being the right to life?

More importantly, when did we become so comfortable watching human suffering unfold before our eyes?
There was a time when communities rallied around those in distress.

If a traveler had an accident, people rushed to help. If a stranger collapsed by the roadside, passersby searched for ways to save a life. If there was danger, the instinct was to intervene, call for help, or seek lawful authorities.

Today, something appears to have changed.
We now live in an age where the first reaction of many people is not to help but to record. The mobile phone, one of humanity’s greatest inventions, has become a permanent extension of our hands.

It allows us to communicate, learn, preserve memories, and connect with the world. Yet, in moments that demand compassion, it is increasingly being used as a tool of spectatorship.

A person is injured.
Phones emerge.
Someone is crying for help.
Phones emerge.
A life hangs in the balance.
Phones emerge.
Before long, videos begin circulating across social media platforms. People watch, comment, share, and move on to the next trending topic.

But what if, instead of recording, someone had stepped forward?
What if the energy spent capturing footage had been directed toward saving a life?
What if even a handful of voices in the crowd had chosen courage over conformity and compassion over curiosity?

These questions may never be answered, but they deserve to be asked.
To be clear, recording incidents is not inherently wrong. There are situations where videos provide evidence, expose wrongdoing, and assist law enforcement agencies in ensuring justice.

Documentation can serve an important purpose. However, a troubling line is crossed when recording becomes a substitute for humanity.
The value of evidence should never outweigh the value of life.

The true measure of a society is not how efficiently it records tragedy but how urgently it responds to it.
Perhaps the most frightening aspect of our digital age is not the technology itself but the gradual erosion of empathy that sometimes accompanies it.

Constant exposure to distressing images and videos can desensitize us. We scroll through pain. We consume suffering. We watch tragedies unfold from the comfort of our screens until real human anguish begins to feel like just another piece of content.

Yet every victim is someone’s child.
Someone’s sibling.
Someone’s friend.
Someone’s hope for tomorrow.
Behind every viral video is a human story.
Behind every trending hashtag is a family whose world may never be the same again.

The tragedy in Jos should therefore serve as a moment of national reflection. Not only about mob justice, which has no place in a civilized society, but also about the choices we make when confronted with another person’s pain.

Technology has given us the power to document events, but it must never take away our responsibility to be human.
As a people, we must learn to pause and ask ourselves a simple question whenever we encounter a person in distress:
“How can I help?”
If that question becomes our first instinct instead of reaching for a camera, perhaps fewer lives will be lost, more people will be rescued, and our communities will once again become places where compassion triumphs over indifference.

The young man in Jos is gone.
Nothing can change that.
But his story should challenge us to examine our collective conscience.
Because the greatest tragedy is not only that a life was lost.
It is that so many people were present, yet humanity seemed absent.