The Average Nigerian is a bold, satirical commentary show that tackles Nigeria’s most pressing social, political, and economic issues — with humor, wit, and a heavy dose of reality. It is education through entertainment. Our goal is to hold up a mirror to society, spark critical thinking, and get the everyday Nigerian to ask deeper questions… while still laughing. He was just another face in the crowd—until you noticed the eyes. Calm, steady, and almost calculating, like someone who had seen far more than he should have before the age of 30. Let’s call him Fola. If you met him in a lecture hall, you’d probably borrow his notes. On the street, you’d never guess that the quiet charisma he carried came from his past as a high-ranking member of the Black Axe, one of Nigeria’s most feared and misunderstood cult groups.
But to call Black Axe just a "cult group" is like calling a lion just a cat. You miss the menace, the mythology, and the machinery that powers it. The Black Axe didn’t start as a criminal enterprise. Its origin is dripping with irony. In 1977, at the University of Benin, a group of idealistic young men formed the Neo-Black Movement of Africa (NBM). They envisioned a brotherhood that would fight oppression, neo-colonialism, and societal decay. It was intellectual, radical, and Pan-African. But as with many great ideas in Nigeria, it didn’t take long for the ideals to decay, hijacked by a hunger for power, protection, and profit. The Black Axe emerged from that disillusionment, like a phoenix, but one that breathed fear instead of fire.

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Today, the name sends shivers down spines. Not because of its original philosophy, but because of its evolution. What was once a movement is now synonymous with extortion, ritual killings, election violence, and international fraud. And yet, if you walk into a Nigerian university today, the Black Axe still thrives—more organized, more deadly, and more seductive than ever.
Fola didn’t wake up one day and decide to join a cult. That’s not how it works. It begins subtly: a friend who seems protected, respected, and untouchable. The invitation to a “brotherhood.” The promise of power, protection from bullies, campus clout, and sometimes, money. Before long, you're kneeling in a circle in the dead of night, taking oaths you barely understand, bleeding from the initiation beatings, caught in a system where loyalty is everything—and the price for disobedience is often death. It’s not just about rituals and rites. It’s about structure. Black Axe operates more like a military unit than a gang. There are hierarchies, assigned roles, territories, and even external missions. They have evolved with technology, moving from machetes to malware. Europol and Interpol have traced global scams and human trafficking rings back to Axemen. The scale is staggering. And yet, their most enduring stronghold remains Nigeria’s universities and political corridors.
So why does this persist?
Because cultism is not the disease—it is the symptom. The real virus is our broken society. Where power is worshipped, where police protection is for the highest bidder, where students are abandoned to survive with no guidance or mentorship, where politicians empower these groups during elections, only to lose control once they taste blood and money. That’s where The Average Nigerian comes in—not the literal person, but the satirical commentary show that peels off the bandage and points directly at the wound. The show dives deep into topics like this—cultism, corruption, tribalism—not with a dull academic tone, but with sharp wit, raw satire, and a fearless hunger for truth. It's where humor meets horror, where laughter uncovers uncomfortable truths, and where the phrase "this country's na cruise" is both joke and warning.
We use characters like Fola not to entertain, but to interrogate. We laugh, but the laughter is bitter. Because The Average Nigerian isn’t just a show—it’s a mirror. It forces us to ask why young men feel the need to find identity in violence. Why Black Axe is still recruiting in 2025. Why every generation says “this one is worse” Cultism is not a phase. It's not just “those boys.” It is a network born from our silence, strengthened by our politics, and ignored by our fear. We must talk about it—not just as a crime, but as a culture gone rogue. And the more we laugh at it, maybe the closer we come to doing something about it.