In the coded language of Nigerian street parlance, the phrase “E dey work, e dey show” has become a popular badge of success, an audacious declaration that whatever hustle one is into is not only yielding results but flaunting them loudly. It is the slogan of a culture that celebrates outcome over process, spectacle over substance. In many circles, it is used to silence questions, disarm doubt, and legitimise wealth, no matter how questionable its origin. But what happens when this seductive mantra becomes a cover for unspeakable evil?
The story of Levi Obieze a.k.a. Ezeani, the native doctor-turned community philanthropist, provides a chilling answer. In today’s Nigeria, we have become dangerously enamoured with the appearance of success. Our collective morality is increasingly shaped by social optics; that is, what people wear, drive, or spray at events. Ezeani fit the profile perfectly. Always dressed flamboyantly, often seen throwing money in the air at weddings and burials, as well as funding local projects that impressed the town, he was hailed as a “man who God has blessed.” In short, Ezeani’s wealth drew admiration, not interrogation. But behind that curated image was a grotesque truth.
To his supporters, “E dey work, e dey show” summed it all up, until the remains of human bodies were discovered in a septic pit behind his compound. Obieze, the flamboyant native doctor, was unmasked not as a village benefactor but as an alleged ritual killer. Beneath the glitter of his staged generosity lay a backyard septic pit filled with the rotting remains of innocent victims. This is not just a community tragedy; it is a national indictment. It is a chilling reminder of what happens when a society worships wealth without asking questions; when public acts of generosity are allowed to mask private atrocities; when the phrase “E dey work, E dey show” becomes both a mantra and a madness.
This piece seeks to examine the dark underside of performative generosity. It interrogates how philanthropy can be weaponised as a moral disguise, and how society’s uncritical worship of visible wealth enables men like Ezeani to thrive in plain sight. In the theatre of Nigerian survival, where poverty bites and good governance remains a deferred hope, this is a sobering call to rethink what we celebrate, and at what cost.
The tragedy unfolded in Umuojor, Umumba Ndiagu, Ezeagu LGA, Enugu State, where two decomposing human bodies were discovered in the septic tank of High Chief Levi Obieze’s residence – a man popularly known by the sobriquet – “E dey work, e dey show.” Before this horrific revelation, Ezeani was a community hero who walked with the rare fortune of someone whose gods (in Achebe’s expression) have graciously cracked their palm kernel. His wealth raised no questions, only applause. His generosity shielded him from suspicion. But beneath the glitz and razzmatazz was a house of horror. The discovery followed the kidnapping of a young girl, who was snatched while accompanying her father to the farm. It was a staged encounter. Two men on a motorcycle feigned mechanical trouble, distracting the father and abducting the child. A frantic search led the local vigilante to Ezeani’s compound, where the girl was rescued and a far more gruesome truth was uncovered – decomposing corpses hidden in a pit. Until then, Ezeani had enjoyed local adoration and likely political protection. His arrest confirmed what many feared: that this was not a man of means, but a predator of the vilest kind. His wealth was not “working” as the street slang would suggest; it was devouring. The philanthropic “healer” was not healing. He was harvesting human beings!
As news spread, the community reeled in disbelief. The man, who had danced with kings and mingled with the high and mighty in society, had turned his home into a mortuary. Ezeani fled. But the long arms of the law caught up with him, nabbed by an eagle-eyed Immigration officer at the Seme border while attempting to flee the country. But beyond the patriotic fervour of the gallant officer, Prince Orji, who reportedly rebuffed all mouth-watering incentives by the fleeing murderer to let him off the hook, one netizen averted our minds of Ezeani’s nemesis, which came down to him in the likeness of a little angel abducted by his hit men. Perhaps, unknown to the marauding beasts, the innocent girl, draping chaplet – a symbolic spiritual pact with her Mother of Perpetual Help – was a favourite of her guardian angel until they realized belatedly that their captured ‘goods,’ which they intoned in their victory song, was indeed, ‘Virgin Mary’! And before they knew it, the game was up, and Ezeani’s philanthropy, curated behind the veil of blood-chilling horror, was over.
The tragedy shows a disturbing thread – the uncritical glorification of wealth and status. Ezeani’s rituals were enabled not just by his clients but by a community that celebrated his affluence without asking questions. The spectacle of wealth had blinded the people to the blood beneath the floorboards. In a country plagued by poverty and unemployment, those who distribute money easily gain adulation. But as Ezeani’s case demonstrates, not all philanthropists are benevolent. Some are masking a darker mission. The culture of blind reverence for wealth has dangerously desensitised us to due diligence. E dey work, e dey show became his shield. His money shut mouths; his gifts disarmed scrutiny.
In a country where hardship runs deep, anyone who “makes it” becomes a local legend, even if his rise defies morality and logic. We do not ask: Where did the money come from? We only clap when it is sprayed. We do not investigate the source; we simply praise the spectacle. This is not generosity; this is psychological grooming, conditioning communities to protect predators because they pay school fees and build roads. This same culture is what enabled Ezeani to operate undisturbed. He had invested not just in “philanthropy” but in performance philanthropy, a spectacle of false virtue used to deflect suspicion and buy silence.
Ezeani is not the first. Across Nigeria, there are tales of traditionalists, pastors, politicians, and businessmen who became “community heroes” by weaponising sudden wealth. They donate to churches, sponsor youth football tournaments, and pay hospital bills, while their basements, balconies, backyards, or bank accounts hold the spoils of human misery. This is not a call to demonise all successful people. Rather, it is a plea for critical thinking. When wealth appears overnight and expands without a visible enterprise, communities must be alert. There is no honour in silence if it shelters slaughter.
Former Imo State Governor Rochas Okorocha once coined the word “iberiberism” to describe senseless acts and foolish behaviour. What greater act of iberiberism can exist than a society that allows showmanship to eclipse scrutiny, and one that crowns criminals and stigmatises poverty? The glorification of questionable wealth is not just foolish; it is fatal. It is what allowed a man like Ezeani to bury bodies behind his mansion while being celebrated as a folk enigma. It is what enables some churches to crown “titans of tithing” without probing the blood that stains their banknotes.
The lesson here is not simply about ritual killings. It is about the cost of silence, the danger of spectacle, and the urgency of interrogation. Communities must stop equating visibility with virtue. Wealth must stop being a free pass. Not all that glitters is gold; sometimes it is blood. Until we return to the value of honest labour and restore a culture of ethical accountability, we will keep discovering bodies in septic tanks and missing children in the homes of the “generous donors,” and “cheerful givers that never lack”. It is clear that Ezeani is not just a native doctor. He is a metaphor for Nigeria’s moral crisis. His story is a mirror reflecting the rot that festers when spiritual ignorance, political silence, and communal idolatry of wealth combine. That he was apprehended while trying to flee through an international border suggests complicity beyond his compound. It suggests networks of silence, of protection, perhaps even of demand. These are not random acts; they are symptoms of a society where desperation meets depravity.
We cannot pray our way out of this mess. We can only prosecute our way out. Ezeani must face the full weight of the law. But more importantly, communities must fully confront their own role in elevating such men to mythical status. State authorities must go beyond reactive justice. Institutions should be empowered to audit spiritual and cultural leaders. Vigilante groups should work in tandem with formal law enforcement, not as lone rangers. Civic education must be revived to sharpen community discernment. Above all, we must teach a generation raised on social media and street slang that “e dey work, e dey show” is not a virtue in itself, especially when it hides a graveyard underneath. It is time to redefine our applause. A man who “dey show” must be asked: how e take dey work? If we must celebrate wealth, we must also demand transparency. If we must sing the praises of community “donors,” we must also check their books and their backyards.
In the end, “E dey work, e dey show” must be understood not as a sign of divine grace, but as a moral test. If we do not question what “dey work” and what exactly “dey show,” we become accomplices in our own destruction. Ezeani showed us that beneath the rain of naira notes and blinding charisma, there could lie decomposing truths. Let his fall be a wake-up call. Let his story be the red flag for a society intoxicated by affluence but allergic to accountability. When next we see a man flaunting unexplained wealth, the right response should not be applause. It should be a question: “At what cost?”
In conclusion, the lesson from Ezeagu is grim but necessary – not all philanthropists are saints. Some are sinners with a PR budget. We cannot bring back the lives lost to Ezeani’s evil, but we can honour their memory by destroying the culture that enabled it. Let us teach our children that wealth without explanation is a warning, not a wonder. Let us teach our communities that generosity without transparency is not a virtue but a veil. Let us not wait for another septic tank to speak the truth. Let us listen now to reason, to conscience, and to the cry of buried victims. In Nigeria today, the real work is not in showing off. It is in saving lives and restoring sanity to a society that must stop clapping for the brand of ‘cheerful givers,’ whose source of wealth is ‘working’ behind a smokescreen of horror and ‘showing’ blood-stained philanthropy in the open!
.Prof Agbedo is of the University of Nigeria, Nsukka, a Fellow of Royal Dutch Institute, and Public Affairs Analyst
