Taiwo chuckles at the irony while waiting for Grand Theft Auto V (GTA) Online – an extension of the game franchise that allows players to roleplay as criminals – to finish installing on his computer.
Earlier that day, the 29-year-old digital marketer, tech-content creator and gamer was in an Uber on the way home when he stumbled upon a TikTok video by Nigerian video game streamer TacticalCeza. With more than 308,000 followers on TikTok, Ceza has become one of the foremost faces of GTA roleplay in Nigeria, as tens of thousands tune in to watch him navigate the game.
Using FiveM – a modification for GTA that allows players to create or join customised multiplayer servers without altering the game’s core framework – Ceza playacts as a policeman character in the “Made in Lagos” Roleplay community server.
There, his character, clad in a Kevlar vest emblazoned with “Nigerian Police”, flags down cars and interacts with other characters roleplaying as fraudsters or motorists – as they re-enact the real-life encounters many young people face with the police.
“Park your vehicle! … Off your engine!” Ceza’s character instructs a motorist character he pulls over to the side of the road. “Who is the owner of this vehicle?!… What do you do for a living?!” Ceza demands, as another police officer character points a gun at the motorist now standing beside the car. The two seize the motorist’s cell phone, after which they place him in the back of their police car and drive to a nearby ATM machine where they demand he withdraw money, which they also take from him before finally allowing him to return to his car and drive off.
For Taiwo, sitting in the back of the Uber watching the video, the roleplay hit close to home.
Less than half an hour earlier in the real world, armed Nigerian police had flagged down the cab he was travelling in, in a common roadblock encounter.
“Park! Park!” one shouted. It was a routine Taiwo knew all too well. On previous stops, officers would ask him for a token “for water” – generally considered a euphemism for a bribe – while other times they’d delay traffic, looking for something incriminating. On this day, they asked Taiwo to open his bag and searched the cab before one asked him for some money for something to eat. “Find me something,” the police officer told Taiwo.
But later, back home at his workstation, Taiwo watches the progress bar fill on his computer screen, indicating that the GTA game is installed. He then opens Ceza’s tutorial video on YouTube explaining how to run the game using FiveM and the Made in Lagos server. He follows the instructions step by step, his curiosity mounting, as he gets closer to stepping into a familiar yet surreal virtual Lagos – filled with encounters not too dissimilar from what he had just experienced.
The weight of satire
For the children outside Taiwo’s house, “play” opens a world bound only by their imagination, the edges of their back yard, and the watchful gaze of an older sibling.
Their “police and thief”, or cops and robbers, games are an innocent pastime. But unbeknownst to them, they mirror a harsher reality of police harassment in cities across Nigeria.
These lived experiences reached a boiling point in 2020 during the #EndSARS protests. What began as isolated grievances against the Special Anti-Robbery Squad’s (SARS) routine profiling and abuse escalated into a nationwide movement demanding accountability, reform and dignity. Millions took to the streets, forcing the world to reckon with the plight of Nigerian youth.
However, five years on, little has changed. More than 2,000 complaints of police misconduct were recorded between 2020 and 2024, according to Nigerian media reports citing various government agencies. Just last year, three men fell victim to a 1 million naira ($666) shakedown – an incident that only came to light when the officers were secretly recorded with a glasses camera, the footage later surfacing on X.
For Ceza, his decision to use gaming as a storytelling medium stems from wanting to share and comment on these common struggles.
“I’ve experienced it firsthand, and so have close friends I lived with,” he tells Al Jazeera. “That’s a big part of why I’m able to tell these stories with authenticity. The stories I come across online also help shape my perspective.”
Ceza’s TikTok popularity and success lie in his blend of social commentary and gaming. By overlaying Call of Duty streams with gameplay or reactions to trending topics, he’s carved out a unique niche in Nigeria, fusing pop culture with gaming to amplify his comedic persona.
However, his rise to prominence has not been without controversy.
When he posted a video apologising to the Nigerian president for laughing at his fall during the 2023 inauguration, viewers speculated that he had been coerced at gunpoint after noticing what appeared to be the nozzle of a gun in the frame. Ceza later clarified it was his microphone, but the incident underscored the precariousness of critiquing authority in Nigeria – even through satire.
“It [using satire] is a more entertaining way to shed some light about the issues with the abuse of power going on in the country,” Ceza says. “Knowing your rights isn’t enough to survive in Nigeria.”
His work seeks to educate but also reassure his audience, he says, reminding them: “What you’ve experienced, you’re not alone, and that alone gives comfort.”
Though gaming is steadily gaining traction in Nigeria, Ceza remains singular in his approach, wielding GTA roleplay as both a mirror and a megaphone to underscore the absurdities of everyday injustice.
Yet, his work is not without precedent. Across music and film, Nigerian artists have long wielded their crafts as instruments of resistance. Rapper Falz’s Johnny and This Is Nigeria serve as scathing indictments of police brutality, while fellow musician Burna Boy’s Monsters You Made seethes with the righteous fury of the oppressed. Nollywood, too, has played its part – films like Oloture and Black November peel back the layers of institutional rot, exposing the state’s complicity in the suffering of its people.
Ceza’s work aligns with this tradition but also points to its evolution: as storytelling mediums evolve, so do the ways in which Nigerians resist, critique, and push for change.
For the children outside Taiwo’s house, “play” opens a world bound only by their imagination, the edges of their back yard, and the watchful gaze of an older sibling.
Their “police and thief”, or cops and robbers, games are an innocent pastime. But unbeknownst to them, they mirror a harsher reality of police harassment in cities across Nigeria.
These lived experiences reached a boiling point in 2020 during the #EndSARS protests. What began as isolated grievances against the Special Anti-Robbery Squad’s (SARS) routine profiling and abuse escalated into a nationwide movement demanding accountability, reform and dignity. Millions took to the streets, forcing the world to reckon with the plight of Nigerian youth.
However, five years on, little has changed. More than 2,000 complaints of police misconduct were recorded between 2020 and 2024, according to Nigerian media reports citing various government agencies. Just last year, three men fell victim to a 1 million naira ($666) shakedown – an incident that only came to light when the officers were secretly recorded with a glasses camera, the footage later surfacing on X.
For Ceza, his decision to use gaming as a storytelling medium stems from wanting to share and comment on these common struggles.
“I’ve experienced it firsthand, and so have close friends I lived with,” he tells Al Jazeera. “That’s a big part of why I’m able to tell these stories with authenticity. The stories I come across online also help shape my perspective.”
Ceza’s TikTok popularity and success lie in his blend of social commentary and gaming. By overlaying Call of Duty streams with gameplay or reactions to trending topics, he’s carved out a unique niche in Nigeria, fusing pop culture with gaming to amplify his comedic persona.
However, his rise to prominence has not been without controversy.
When he posted a video apologising to the Nigerian president for laughing at his fall during the 2023 inauguration, viewers speculated that he had been coerced at gunpoint after noticing what appeared to be the nozzle of a gun in the frame. Ceza later clarified it was his microphone, but the incident underscored the precariousness of critiquing authority in Nigeria – even through satire.
“It [using satire] is a more entertaining way to shed some light about the issues with the abuse of power going on in the country,” Ceza says. “Knowing your rights isn’t enough to survive in Nigeria.”
His work seeks to educate but also reassure his audience, he says, reminding them: “What you’ve experienced, you’re not alone, and that alone gives comfort.”
Though gaming is steadily gaining traction in Nigeria, Ceza remains singular in his approach, wielding GTA roleplay as both a mirror and a megaphone to underscore the absurdities of everyday injustice.
Yet, his work is not without precedent. Across music and film, Nigerian artists have long wielded their crafts as instruments of resistance. Rapper Falz’s Johnny and This Is Nigeria serve as scathing indictments of police brutality, while fellow musician Burna Boy’s Monsters You Made seethes with the righteous fury of the oppressed. Nollywood, too, has played its part – films like Oloture and Black November peel back the layers of institutional rot, exposing the state’s complicity in the suffering of its people.
Ceza’s work aligns with this tradition but also points to its evolution: as storytelling mediums evolve, so do the ways in which Nigerians resist, critique, and push for change.
Gaming as activism
Globally, video games surpass both film and music in revenue and reach. According to Newzoo’s Global Games Market Report, the gaming industry generated more than $187bn in 2024, dwarfing the global box office and music industry combined. While Nigeria’s gaming scene is still emerging, its rapid growth – driven by mobile gaming and an expanding internet user base – signals its increasing cultural relevance.
Globally, digital platforms have emerged as tools for activism, with examples like Roblox hosting protests to highlight political causes, such as pro-Palestine solidarity during the Gaza war. Pro-democracy activists in Hong Kong and supporters of the Black Lives Matter movement have also used virtual spaces to amplify their messages, turning gameplay into a force for change.
In Nigeria, this medium reflects the reality of many young people, offering a space to confront real-world issues like police brutality and systemic profiling.
Joost Vervoort, a scholar specialising in how digital environments like gaming can reshape societal norms, empower communities, and challenge entrenched systems, observes, “Video games, in the case of what Ceza does, create a cultural phenomenon people can reflect on. It’s storytelling. It is playing around with communal identities.”
His research reveals how seriousness and playfulness can coexist, offering insight into why Nigerians are drawn to making light of serious issues, as Ceza does.
“The wisdom of deep playfulness lies in taking things less rigidly, with ironic distance and perspective. Play allows us to reject normal interpretations and embrace the absurdity and complexity of life, while imagining endless possibilities for change,” he tells Al Jazeera.
As Ceza explains, perception is shaped by the society it arises in: “When everyone hears a different story, I believe they have the free will to either take it as a joke or a deeper message. And that is not for me to impose on them.”
As game players and TikTok viewers see a mirror of their own reality in Ceza’s work, Vervoort explains that this familiarity compels players to invest their identity, values and interests into the game, building communities that, over time, help shift societal norms.
Some worry that having humour so entwined with serious issues risks the gravity of the message being lost. However, Vervoort is confident in its power to prompt change. “The space is gradually transforming into a platform for cultural and political critique,” he says, “and though the risk of not being taken seriously exists, it’s unlikely to derail the impact.”
As streaming grows and gaming becomes a more powerful medium for activism, Ceza sees its potential to reach global audiences and bring new visibility to Nigerian issues. “It’s going to change the world and put Nigerians on the map,” he says. “It’s a new field, and I’m glad it’s growing.”
For Taiwo, this growing power of gaming becomes tangible as he dons the role of a fraudster in GTA, and soon finds himself in a virtual encounter that mirrors the harassment he faces in real life.
On-screen, Ceza, in character as a police officer, demands that Taiwo “drop something for the boys” or risk being taken to the station.
No matter how many times Taiwo tries to escape, the game’s rules – like the system he lives in – remain unchallenged, its power unyielding.
Yet for him, the game is both cathartic and communal – a space where he can process his frustrations without real-world consequences while connecting with others who understand the reality.
“It’s weird,” he admits. “You’d think I’d want to escape it, but playing it like this makes it feel less maddening – at least here, I know it’s not real. And maybe that’s the point. We all get to laugh about something that isn’t funny, because what else can we do?”
Globally, video games surpass both film and music in revenue and reach. According to Newzoo’s Global Games Market Report, the gaming industry generated more than $187bn in 2024, dwarfing the global box office and music industry combined. While Nigeria’s gaming scene is still emerging, its rapid growth – driven by mobile gaming and an expanding internet user base – signals its increasing cultural relevance.
Globally, digital platforms have emerged as tools for activism, with examples like Roblox hosting protests to highlight political causes, such as pro-Palestine solidarity during the Gaza war. Pro-democracy activists in Hong Kong and supporters of the Black Lives Matter movement have also used virtual spaces to amplify their messages, turning gameplay into a force for change.
In Nigeria, this medium reflects the reality of many young people, offering a space to confront real-world issues like police brutality and systemic profiling.
Joost Vervoort, a scholar specialising in how digital environments like gaming can reshape societal norms, empower communities, and challenge entrenched systems, observes, “Video games, in the case of what Ceza does, create a cultural phenomenon people can reflect on. It’s storytelling. It is playing around with communal identities.”
His research reveals how seriousness and playfulness can coexist, offering insight into why Nigerians are drawn to making light of serious issues, as Ceza does.
“The wisdom of deep playfulness lies in taking things less rigidly, with ironic distance and perspective. Play allows us to reject normal interpretations and embrace the absurdity and complexity of life, while imagining endless possibilities for change,” he tells Al Jazeera.
As Ceza explains, perception is shaped by the society it arises in: “When everyone hears a different story, I believe they have the free will to either take it as a joke or a deeper message. And that is not for me to impose on them.”
As game players and TikTok viewers see a mirror of their own reality in Ceza’s work, Vervoort explains that this familiarity compels players to invest their identity, values and interests into the game, building communities that, over time, help shift societal norms.
Some worry that having humour so entwined with serious issues risks the gravity of the message being lost. However, Vervoort is confident in its power to prompt change. “The space is gradually transforming into a platform for cultural and political critique,” he says, “and though the risk of not being taken seriously exists, it’s unlikely to derail the impact.”
As streaming grows and gaming becomes a more powerful medium for activism, Ceza sees its potential to reach global audiences and bring new visibility to Nigerian issues. “It’s going to change the world and put Nigerians on the map,” he says. “It’s a new field, and I’m glad it’s growing.”
For Taiwo, this growing power of gaming becomes tangible as he dons the role of a fraudster in GTA, and soon finds himself in a virtual encounter that mirrors the harassment he faces in real life.
On-screen, Ceza, in character as a police officer, demands that Taiwo “drop something for the boys” or risk being taken to the station.
No matter how many times Taiwo tries to escape, the game’s rules – like the system he lives in – remain unchallenged, its power unyielding.
Yet for him, the game is both cathartic and communal – a space where he can process his frustrations without real-world consequences while connecting with others who understand the reality.
“It’s weird,” he admits. “You’d think I’d want to escape it, but playing it like this makes it feel less maddening – at least here, I know it’s not real. And maybe that’s the point. We all get to laugh about something that isn’t funny, because what else can we do?”
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