I read somewhere a quote that says, “If all humans suddenly lost the ability to lie, what industry would collapse first?” Let’s say—on a Tuesday at 3:47 a.m. GMT—humanity collectively loses the ability to lie.

Not just fibs or diplomatic curtsies, but every form of untruth—white lies, sweet lies, bold lies, functional lies—all shades of distortion, evasion, half-truths and tactful silences. They disappear. You try to say, “No, I’m fine,” when you’re crumbling inside, and instead your mouth utters, “I’m falling apart.” Your boss says, “You’re a valued member of this team,” but what comes out is, “I don’t even remember your name.”

And then, picture Nigeria.

The collapse doesn’t begin where you’d think. Not first in politics, though we’ll get there. Not even religion, though the tremors will be divine. No, the first industry to fall apart is one most Nigerians brush against every day without really noticing.

Advertising.

The jingles, the bright smiling faces, the miracle drinks, the cream that clears pimples in three days—they all go mute. Or rather, they begin to speak truth.

Billboards in Lagos once promising “100% Guaranteed Herbal Results” now whisper, “May or may not work. Based on anecdotal evidence.” Television ads for energy drinks now clarify, “Contains sugar. Boost lasts for 17 minutes. You will crash.” Influencers pause mid-sentence on Instagram Lives, blinking into the void before confessing, “I’ve never used this product. I just collected 250k.”

And just like that, an industry built on exaggeration and curated illusion folds into itself like a bad origami. Advertising cannot survive truth. It needs dreams, distortions, desirability. It cannot thrive on “It’s okay, not amazing,” or “You may regret this purchase.” The fall is not dramatic. It is quiet, like an apology in the dark.

But strangely, from this wreckage, something beautiful crawls out. Simplicity. Authenticity. A market woman at Mile 12 no longer swears, “Original leather!” Instead, she shrugs and says, “Na China. But e go last small.” And suddenly, you trust her.

Yet, while advertising dies first, politics dies loudest.

Politics without lying is like pepper soup without pepper—bare, exposed, and kind of awkward. It begins in Abuja, where a senator is asked why a budgeted road remains unpaved. He opens his mouth to say, “We’re still in procurement,” but instead out comes: “We diverted the funds to settle loyal party members and personal projects.”

The TV studio freezes.

In a certain state, a local government chairman preparing for re-election admits, “I built the borehole, but it’s just for photo ops. It doesn’t really work.” Manifestos across Nigeria mutate overnight into brutally honest pamphlets:

• We’ll try, but we’re underqualified.
• Our priority is re-election, not reform.
• This promise is mostly for optics.

The electorate is stunned. Not because they didn’t know. But because the performance is gone. The game, no longer dressed in agbada and protocol, is laid bare.

Democracy doesn’t end—but it staggers. A new political culture rises, one stripped of charisma and swollen slogans. We begin to vote—not for those who say they will change things, but for those humble enough to say, “We don’t know yet, but we’ll listen.” The myth of the messianic leader collapses, and we begin to build leadership from the ground up, not from the top down.

Still, the most painful implosion is not in our institutions. It is in our homes.

In Nigeria, we are raised with a curious morality—where lying is wrong, but encouraged, as long as it maintains peace or saves face. Children are told to always tell the truth, but punished when they do. Adults navigate entire relationships with truths they never say. Without lies, we are left with raw honesty.

And so one day, a woman turns to her husband and says, “You’ve made me small in my own life.” A father hears from his son, “I studied law because I feared your disappointment, not because I ever wanted it.” Families unravel—not out of hatred, but out of years of deferred honesty.

Marriages dissolve. But some deepen. Siblings weep. But some reconnect. The cost of honesty is high, but it makes way for something more enduring: healing. We begin to rebuild our relationships, not on fantasy, but on the sacred soil of truth.

Now, to the most sacred of all places: the pulpit.

Religion in Nigeria is entangled with performance—grand gestures, choreographed testimonies, spiritual hyperbole. Here, the lie is not always spoken. It is in the silence that follows. The unchallenged “I saw an angel,” the timed “I sowed and now I drive a Benz.” But now, imagine the lie-break happens mid-service.

A pastor announces, “This prophecy came from my imagination. I wanted to inspire hope.” A priest confesses, “Some Sundays, I no longer feel what I preach.” In mosques, churches, and temples, leaders speak not from scripts, but from the trembling truth of being human. Congregants sit stunned—but something stirs in them: the yearning for a faith that breathes, not performs.

In the absence of exaggeration, real faith returns.

Prayer becomes intimate again. Belief becomes wrestled, not parroted. The gospel, once polished, is now messy and real. We stop building cathedrals to impress, and start becoming sanctuaries that shelter. Religion stops trying to be spectacular—and finally becomes spiritual.

And yet, some may ask: in all this chaos, does anything survive?

The answer is yes.

Anything built on truth survives. Anything already rooted in reality endures. In fact, truth does not destroy what’s good—it just clears out what’s false. But for Nigeria, this would be more than a spiritual awakening. It would be a structural one.

Imagine if:

• Every teacher told students the truth about what the system can offer them.
• Every politician admitted what they cannot do.
• Every police officer confessed what he collects at checkpoints.
• Every civil servant acknowledged the bribes, the shortcuts, the laziness.
• Every journalist reported the news without adding spin to please their sponsors.

Nigeria, without lies, would be gutted—but it would be clean. It would finally be forced to confront what it really is, not what it pretends to be. The illusion would fall away, and what remains is the hard soil of accountability.

And maybe that’s not such a bad place to start.

Lies have allowed us to pretend things are working. That this is the best we can do. That our children should adjust, not dream. That poverty is spiritual, not structural. That oppression is destiny.

But when we stop lying, we start seeing.

And when we start seeing, we must either fix—or fold.

There is a reason the Bible says, “You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.” (John 8:32)

But freedom, like truth, is not always comforting. It is not always convenient. It burns before it builds. It exposes before it empowers.

So yes, if humans lost the ability to lie, advertising would collapse first.

But maybe, just maybe, truth would begin to do what generations of policies and prayers have not yet done—make us whole.

By Fr. Ken Nkadi, O.P.