Coups do not always begin with gunfire.
Sometimes, they begin with a story.
A rumour whispered at a beer parlour.
Maybe viral video that feels too real.
A film scene that suddenly looks like prophecy.
A joke that lands too close to home.
Even before tanks roll, minds must shift.
Before soldiers mutiny, legitimacy must rot.
Before a president is removed, belief must be destabilised.
So when news emerged that Stanley Amandi—a Nollywood filmmaker, actor, and former Actors Guild chairman—had been arrested in connection with an alleged plot to violently overthrow President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, Nigeria did not just hear about a disrupted military conspiracy.
Nigeria heard something colder.
Something far more dangerous.
It heard that cinema itself may have been dragged into the mechanics of regime change.
If the allegations are even partially true, then this was not a crude, old-school putsch. This was not soldiers drunk on ambition. This was not merely treason with boots and bullets.
It was narrative warfare.
A coup rehearsed in imagination.
A takeover auditioned through emotion.
Perhaps, a regime collapse scored, scripted, and softened long before any order was given.
And suddenly, a terrifying question confronts the country: What happens when storytellers stop reflecting power—and start preparing its burial?
As investigations quietly unfold—court-martials for officers, detentions for civilians, and carefully worded military statements—Nigeria is being forced to confront a reality it has never fully admitted:
The most dangerous coups of the 21st century may not start in the barracks.
They may start on screens.
Below are five things about this coup crisis Nigerians are not being told—or not being encouraged to think about.
1. THIS WAS NEVER JUST A MILITARY COUP
One of the most misleading assumptions Nigerians are making is that this was simply about rogue soldiers.
It wasn’t.
Modern coups rarely succeed through force alone. Armies do not move unless the public atmosphere has already been softened.
Legitimacy must be weakened. Authority must look ridiculous, cruel, or irredeemable. Chaos must feel inevitable—even necessary.
According to security sources, the alleged plot involved civilian actors whose job was not violence, but perception.
This is crucial.
Because it suggests the objective was not just to seize power—but to justify it.
A coup without narrative fails.
A coup with narrative becomes a “rescue mission.”
And that is where Nigeria may have come frighteningly close.
2. NOLLYWOOD IS NOT JUST ENTERTAINMENT—IT IS A WEAPON
Nigeria underestimates Nollywood at its own peril.
Nollywood does not just entertain.
It educates emotion.
It trains sympathy.
And decides who is evil, who is heroic, and who deserves to die for the greater good.
When authorities allege that a filmmaker was positioned to help “prepare the ground,” the implication is seismic.
Because film can do what speeches cannot:
Make chaos feel romantic
Make rebellion feel righteous
Oftentimes, makes violence feel inevitable
Make assassination feel like sacrifice
Propaganda never announces itself as propaganda.
It arrives disguised as art.
As “truth.”
As “what they don’t want you to see.”
If even partially true, this suggests Nigeria is entering a phase where content creators are strategic assets, not neutral artists.
That should terrify everyone—regardless of political loyalty.
3. THE COUP MAY HAVE BEEN A PSYCHOLOGICAL OPERATION FIRST
The most unsettling possibility is this:
What if the coup had already started—in the mind—long before it was disrupted?
Psychological operations don’t require gunfire. They require confusion. Fatigue. Cynicism. Emotional overload.
When citizens begin to believe:
“Nothing works”
“Everyone is corrupt”
“Force is the only solution”
“Democracy is a scam”
…then the state is already half-defeated.
This is why security agencies globally now monitor narrative ecosystems as closely as weapons stockpiles.
If Nigeria’s coup plot truly involved storytelling, then this was not incompetence—it was sophistication.
And that raises a chilling thought:
How many narratives have already been planted that we don’t recognise as seeds?
4. THE SILENCE AROUND AMANDI IS PART OF THE BATTLE
Stanley Amandi’s last known Instagram activity—September 19, 2025, days before his reported arrest—has become a symbol.
To supporters, it signals disappearance.
For critics, it signals guilt.
To conspiracy theorists, it signals suppression.
But to serious analysts, it signals something else:
Silence itself has become a weapon.
In an age where visibility equals relevance, absence fuels speculation. And speculation is the raw material of propaganda.
The state says little.
The accused says nothing.
And the public fills the gap with stories.
And in that vacuum, belief mutates faster than truth.
5. THE REAL THREAT TO TINUBU MAY NOT WEAR A UNIFORM
Perhaps the most dangerous truth Nigerians are avoiding is this:
The greatest threat to President Tinubu’s government may not come from soldiers—it may come from storytellers.
From influencers.
Skit makers.
From filmmakers.
Viral “truth tellers.”
From people who can make collapse feel poetic.
Armies obey commands.
But stories seduce.
And once a population emotionally accepts collapse as “necessary,” the hardest work of a coup is already done.
A COUNTRY AT WAR WITH ITS IMAGINATION
None of these allegations have been tested in open court.
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Stanley Amandi remains an accused man, not a convicted one.
Facts will emerge—slowly, carefully, perhaps selectively.
But the conversation cannot wait.
Because if coups now require filmmakers, then democracies must defend more than borders. They must defend belief.
Nigeria is learning—painfully—that power in the 21st century is not only seized with rifles.
It is written.
Directed.
Performed.
And the next battle for Aso Rock may not begin in the barracks.
It may begin on a screen.