Like many Nigerians, I have sometimes briefly wondered about Olajumoke Orisaguna, the bread hawker who became famous after stumbling onto the active photo set of celebrity photographer TY Bello in 2016. In the age of internet-driven sensations, people rise out of seemingly nowhere; some just disappear into obscurity. For someone who practically had a Cinderella story, it was natural to enquire what Olajumoke did the morning after she was hurled off to the palace as a princess. Questions about her life after fame were answered when she resurfaced recently with a sad story about how she suffered domestic abuse, was exploited by her manager, and subsequently became impoverished.

Listening to her interview on City 105.1 FM, I felt very sorry for this woman who had risen to a height in the eyes of the public only to slide back down. Except after tasting glamour, the old life one returns to never feels the same anymore. Going from the level of fame that splashes your adorned face on billboards to being just another person struggling to eat can be tormenting. Then, you would have to deal with the questioning stares from those who do not expect to see you in de-glamorised conditions. It cannot be easy to put herself back out there and seek help again. I honestly commend her strength.

As much as I sincerely sympathise with her, I also pondered what her initial fame suggests about our society. What was it about our collective lives that we so badly needed to feel good about that we occasionally catapult random people doing their random things into a hero? When you really think about how her story unfolded, you wonder how it could have been different. While it was unfortunate that she was serially defrauded by her manager, who took advantage of her illiteracy, one still wonders, “What talent or expertise was that manager even managing anyway?”

She is a pretty woman, no doubt, but looks alone do not sell forever in a high turnover industry like modeling. The story of her discovery and the sentiment it dredged would have waned at some point. Compelling stories like a bread seller who turned into a model have a limited shelf life in a world of infinite distractions. The same public that was so quick to read her rise as a miracle cannot be trusted to keep buying what she was selling based on that story alone. Like swimming sharks, they are already sniffing for fresh blood. For how long would her good luck that did not seem based on anything substantial have lasted anyway? She would likely have peaked by now, even if her manager did not play a fast one on her.

As much as Olajumoke’s second coming is a chance for her, it should also be a cautionary tale for the do-gooders of the internet to learn that, as much as certain people’s stories might tug at the strings of our hearts, we should also resist the temptation to play God. I have been part of public fundraising for people who needed an education or medical care several times, so this is not a campaign against philanthropy. Instead, this is about the anxiety that propels charity to the point that we forget we might be overly disrupting the beneficiary’s life. Sometimes the best help one can give to a person is to refrain from overwhelming them with the unstructured support that will eventually paralyse their ability to take the right initiative in their own life.

In the case of Olajumoke, she would probably have been better off if—instead of trying to make her a model—she had been put in school to get an education while learning a trade. Yes, that would have been far less glamorous than appearing on the cover of fashion magazines and perhaps less satisfying for people who badly wanted her to represent some magical tale, but guess what? She would have completed that training by now. She would probably have been more motivated to stick through the adult education classes that one of her benefactors paid for but which she failed to complete. With formal education and vocational training, she would have been independent and self-confident.

Eight years after her surprising “discovery,” she is unsurprisingly back under the custodianship of her benefactors. During her radio interview, Olajumoke mentioned her poor living conditions in Mowe, Ogun State. One cannot blame her for holding the place in disdain. After living in a well-furnished apartment paid for by a benefactor, the reality of living in a place where thousands of other hard-working Nigerians live every day must have been horrifying. But what exactly has she done that entitles her to live any differently? Those who live in that same Mowe and must regularly endure similar horrid environmental conditions did not uniquely offend God; it is just that life has not afforded them the opportunity to stray into the set of a celebrity photo shoot.

Four years after Olajumoke also came the story of Risikat Azeez, the woman with blue eyes cast out of her marriage by her husband, who did not understand her appearance as a rare genetic mutation. Hardly had the story hit the internet that those who saw the makings of another Olajumoke’s story quickly arranged a photo shoot for the woman. Someone instantly appointed herself the woman’s manager! You cannot help but wonder what was there to be managed. While the woman’s transformed appearance was useful to raise funds to empower her, how many photographs of her will the public gorge on before being satiated?

There are several more instances of supposed life-changing encounters propagated by the internet. What is common to them all is that our eagerness to see someone whose story has touched us magically transformed makes us overlook the larger systemic issues of poverty and, in some cases, domestic abuse. At times, charity just makes us use people for our own ends, as in the case of Deborah Olaki—another random social media user—who tweeted that she wakes up at 4.50am to make her husband’s lunch.

After being heckled for it by some fellow women—regular internet behaviour—some men started falling over themselves to donate money to her to spite the cyber feminists. Corporate organisations joined the fray, giving her money and their products. Even the NNPC jumped on the bandwagon (now you see why that organisation is perpetually dysfunctional), donating public funds to an internet-fuelled cause. This is a woman who does what millions of women (including the wives of the men donating) do every day, but somehow fragile masculinity made her a shining example of feminine virtue.

At first, the spectacle of men proving themselves to enrich a woman was delightsome. If the woman had tried to recruit more hecklers to trigger the men into giving more, I would have gladly joined the train. But it got to a point where the degree of their private life she had to trade for donation started feeling invasive. It got me wondering what would become of their lives when the public glare fades. This was a woman who said she began to wake up early to make lunch for her husband because another woman at work was feeding him. If she could not take his fidelity to his marital vows for granted despite his poverty—he could not even afford to buy lunch—what would become of their relationship after making so much money? Until you have money, you really do not know your own virtues. I wondered if any of the male donors, in their eager game of one-upmanship against critical women, paused to reflect how they were dramatically altering the dynamics of this couple’s relationship by playing sugar daddy to them.