Something is happening across Nigerian social media; it is hard to miss once you notice it. Everywhere you look, there is a link to an article or think piece. Someone has either “written a piece”, “shared a thought,” or ” penned an analysis.” Open Twitter or scroll through Instagram, and you will likely run into a barrage of such posts. A subtle but noticeable shift towards long-form writing, specifically the kind that presents itself as social commentary or cultural analysis. The domain that, traditionally, belonged to trained journalists and editors.
Let’s call it “The Great -ification”.
The signs are easy to spot. The Westernization of Moaning, an article published on Medium, recently went viral and has garnered over 2.4k claps and counting. It was positioned as social commentary, which comes with certain expectations: some level of research, grounding in fact, and a degree of care with language and structure. Instead, what readers got, left much to be desired. The piece relied heavily on assumptions, making sweeping claims without evidence. One line in the article asserted that in response to your partner speaking Yoruba during sex, you would “find it funny, yes, but maybe even sexy, because you’d feel like you’re having sex with a dilf, a sugar daddy or sugar mummy who’s half literate and extremely rich.” It is the kind of statement that calls for a pause and prompts incredulity. The piece then unraveled into scattered thoughts, shaky structure, and grammar that made it read, at times, like satire.
And yet, it travelled and resonated with many readers.
That is the fascinating thing about this era of digital media. The barrier to entry has never been lower, and the appetite for engagement has never been higher. So everyone writes, shares, and posts Substack links like they are dispatches from the frontlines of thought.
It is not a coincidence that Substack sits at the centre of this shift. In Nigeria, especially over the past year, the platform has taken on a kind of cultural weight that similar platforms never quite managed to hold. Usage has grown through 2025 and into early 2026, supported by a maturing creator economy, rising niche communities, and a broader shift toward monetised digital content. Globally, Substack’s largest audience is aged 25–34, a demographic that overlaps almost perfectly with Nigeria’s tech and creative class.
Substack’s original premise was simple: It wanted to be the best place for long-form writing, a home for writers seeking sustainable, independent careers. It offered easy publishing tools, newsletter infrastructure, and direct reader access. For a while, that was enough. Writers could build mailing lists, nurture communities, and gradually turn readers into paying subscribers.
Then came the incentives. Substack began offering financial support to select writers, particularly journalists, including legal backing and, in some cases, insurance. It positioned itself as a refuge for those disillusioned with traditional media structures. Over time, it attracted high-profile names, journalists who had grown frustrated with editorial constraints or ideological pressures within legacy organisations.
But somewhere along the line, the tone shifted. Around 2023, the language changed from “writers” to “creators.” This was not accidental; rather, it matched the rise of the creator economy, an era where all forms of content became currency. Substack began to look less like a publishing tool and more like a social platform. Features like Notes made it resemble Twitter and TikTok. It was no longer just about writing. It was about visibility, engagement, and presence.
In that sense, Substack started to feel like Instagram, but with words.
To fully grasp why this matters, look at how the media itself has evolved. Before the digital age, information moved through traditional media: newspapers, radio, magazines, billboards, and journals. These systems were structured, hierarchical, and, above all, gatekept. Editors decided what was worth publishing. Institutions controlled distribution.
The rise of digital media disrupted all of that. Suddenly, information could be transmitted instantly, across devices and borders. By the 2010s, digital media had become the dominant form of communication. Anyone with a smartphone could consume, produce, and share content.
This shift also changed journalism. Alongside legacy institutions, a new ecosystem emerged. Non-legacy platforms, often referred to as “new media,” offered flexibility. They were faster, less bureaucratic, and more responsive to the moment. At the same time, they lowered the barrier to entry. Citizen journalists and activist voices began to occupy space, often bringing clear perspectives and biases, ideally within a framework of accuracy and fairness.
Speed defined digital media. News could be continuously reported and updated in real time. This immediacy had its advantages, but also introduced new problems. The rush to publish often meant that poorly researched or unfounded work slipped through.
Now, with platforms like Substack, we are in what could be described as the “new new media.” These platforms operate outside traditional social media structures, allowing writers to build independent communities, often supported by paid subscriptions. According to the Financial Times, while many aspects of the news industry are shrinking, newsletters are experiencing a kind of resurgence, with Substack leading the charge.
The Substack appeal is obvious. There is easy visibility; you do not have to climb through the ranks of a newsroom to be heard. There is also accessibility, no editors or corporate structure deciding what is worth publishing. There is the possibility of direct income, a model similar to YouTube but for writing. And there is the simple pull of engagement; people want to be read and to have their ideas land somewhere.
Still, the reality is less glamorous than it appears. Most Substack writers are not making significant money. For many, it is a side project, something that exists alongside a day job. The creator economy, for all its promise, is uneven. A few people break through, most do not. But that does not seem to matter because the platform offers something else: a sense of participation.
Substack’s cultural relevance becomes clearer when you compare it to earlier platforms. Medium, for instance, once had Nigerian writers in a chokehold. It offered reach, through its algorithm and built-in audience, but it struggled to build the kind of sustained loyalty that Substack encouraged, especially when it offered monetization to everybody but Nigerians. Substack’s subscription model, its emphasis on community, and its tools for interaction between writers and readers make the platform feel more personal. Writers can cross-promote each other, host podcasts, share videos, and build conversations.
It has, in a way, done what other platforms could not. It has created Substackers, much like TikTok created TikTokers.
At the same time, the broader social media landscape has been shifting. Twitter, now X, no longer functions the way it once did. Under new ownership, the platform has moved away from its earlier identity as a space for lively exchange. Changes to online behaviour regulation, combined with monetisation features that reward virality, have altered the platform’s tone. Engagement is often driven by outrage, and nuance struggles to survive.
Twitter used to be a place where ideas moved quickly, where conversations unfolded in real time, where social observation thrived. It was messy, but it was alive. Now, for many users, that function has weakened. And so, some of that energy has migrated elsewhere.
Increasingly, it is showing up on Substack.
Globally, the platform hosts a wide range of content. There are newsletters about niche interests, personal essays, reporting, fiction, and even things that are difficult to categorise. Many writers experiment with form, publishing interviews, explainers, workshops, and reflections. There is variety, a sense that the platform can hold different kinds of voices.
This is where the “Great -ification” comes into focus. A large portion of Substack writing in Nigeria takes the form of social or cultural analysis. Everyone is observing, diagnosing, and explaining society back to itself.
Part of this is cultural. Nigerians have a complex relationship with intellect and performance. Education carries weight, it signals status, discipline and achievement. There is a deep respect for those who are seen as “book smart.” The phrase “he knows book” didn’t come out of nowhere.
There is also a tendency to perform intelligence, to signal it, to make it visible. You see it in the reverence for academically rigorous professions like law and medicine. You hear it in cultural references, like Naeto C’s “the only MC with an MSc.” You see it in the characters that populate Nigerian pop culture, from exaggerated lawyer skits to fictional figures like Jenifa’s Diary’s “John the Genius.” You also see it, more uncomfortably, in real-life figures like “Professor” Onyeka Nwelue, whose public persona has often leaned heavily on the performance of intellectual authority, usually without the substance to convincingly support it.
This performance extends into writing. Long-form analysis becomes a way to signal intellectual rigour, whether or not that rigour is actually present. And because Nigeria has a strong literary tradition, one that includes globally recognised figures like Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Wole Soyinka, and Chinua Achebe, there is an added layer of aspiration. Writing carries prestige.
But prestige without discipline can become something else entirely.
The Nigerian internet space does not necessarily reward depth. Much of what thrives online falls into familiar categories: comedy, lifestyle content, football, betting and increasingly disruptive livestreams. Serious conversation exists, but it often gets drowned in the noise. Even within established media spaces, there has been a noticeable drift toward low-quality, unstructured discussions.
Substack, in this context, becomes another outlet for the same tendencies. The form changes, but the underlying habits remain. Opinions are presented as analysis. Assertions replace research. The tone suggests authority, even when the substance does not hold up. It starts to resemble another familiar phenomenon: the rise of pseudo-intellectual content on platforms like TikTok. The difference is that here, it is dressed in paragraphs.
This is not to say that Substack itself is the problem. The platform is doing what it was designed to do. It offers tools. It provides space. It allows people to publish. What happens within that space reflects the people using it and right now, what it reflects is a curious era. An era where everyone has something to say, where the desire to be heard sometimes outruns the effort required to say something well, where intellectualism is both valued and performed, where writing becomes as much about presentation as it is about substance.
That is the “Great -ification”.
It is not entirely a bad thing. There is value in more people writing, thinking and engaging with ideas. But there is also a need for some kind of grounding. Analysis requires work. Commentary requires context. Observation, on its own, is not enough.
Without this grounding, what you get is exactly what we are seeing now. A flood of content that looks like thought, sounds like thought, but often stops just short of being it.
