Blessing CEO and the Theft of Suffering

There is a particular kind of fraud that the digital age has perfected, and it is not the one involving hacked bank accounts. It is more intimate. It feeds on human sympathy. And when sympathy is weaponised – when a person performs terminal illness for the cameras – we confront an ugly truth about the attention economy. We already know that it rewards not just the talented but the dubious, provided they can master the art of building a large followership and milking it for money. Take a bow, Blessing CEO (Blessing Okoro), the relationship guru turned self-described cancer patient, whose medical fraud has now been exposed by the Nigerian Medical Association itself. Her case is a textbook example of what happens when platform logic meets religious giving culture, when parasocial intimacy replaces evidence, reason and when a hunger for clout clashes with a genuine cancer patient’s private agony.

In late March 2026, Blessing CEO posted a video designed to break hearts. She had shaved her head. Her voice cracked. She announced stage four breast cancer and, in the same breath, provided bank details. Within days, she raised approximately N13 million from followers, including a donation from another digital activist who would later lead the charge against her, VeryDarkMan. Here is where the story departs from the usual sympathy-scam template. Blessing CEO did not simply lie. She stole another woman’s medical report. The Nigerian Medical Association’s Delta State branch, on April 1, 2026, confirmed that the histology report she brandished belonged to Deborah Mbara, a real cancer survivor. Blessing CEO had obtained the document under the guise of “comparing results” for emotional support, then altered it and presented it as her own. Let that sink in. We know a dodgy social media influencer with no cancer pretended to have it using a report belonging to a patient. What happened next could very well be from a Nollywood script. The real cancer patient outed the dubious influencer, letting us know that she was manipulated into sharing her most private trauma. Blessing CEO, meanwhile, hurried to distance herself from the claim; saying she did not have stage 4 cancer, and that her dodgy “performance” was “a miscommunication.” Really? A miscommunication? What about the forged document and a N13 million fraudulent fundraising campaign?

It’s annoying but we must ask – why was it easy for her to fool people? The answer lies in what media scholars call parasocial interaction; the illusion of intimacy that social media platforms manufacture at scale. Blessing CEO had deceived people into seeing her as a blunt, motherly, spiritually aggressive confidante. Her followers did not see a deceitful stranger; they saw a friend in crisis. In Nigeria’s Pentecostal-inflected digital culture, where suffering often requires a “seed” of financial faith, donating to a crying influencer may have felt like a spiritual duty. But there is another layer. Blessing CEO understood what Aproko Doctor understood: platforms reward emotional extremity even if it is questionable. A tearful cancer announcement generates higher dwell time and stronger algorithmic amplification than any balanced discussion. It is the same way that terrible logic, soaked in PR money is passed on as scientific knowledge. She was performing for the algorithm. And the algorithm delivered even as the NMA’s intervention broke the spell. Once a credible medical body declares a document doctored, even the most devoted follower must pause. The dubious influencer did what most of them do when they are under high-pressured public scrutiny – deactivating her Instagram account. The performance, for now, is over.

The most haunting figure in this affair is Deborah Mbara. She survived cancer, only to have her medical records weaponised by a callous social media influencer. When Blessing CEO issued an apology on April 5, 2026, Mbara’s family rejected it. And on April 7, Mbara herself spoke: “She used my pain to make money.” That sentence should be etched into every discussion of influencer fraud. It is interesting that VeryDarkMan, who had initially donated believing the claim, filed a formal petition with the Inspector-General of Police, citing false representation, forgery, and conduct likely to defraud. Maybe he disapproves of Blessing CEO’s approach but the social media space where they both make money approves and appears to reward taking followers for a ride. It is unlikely his petition will amount to anything, not because it lacks merit but of the procedural gap – the police have acknowledged the petition and approved an investigation while the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC) has said it is unable to do anything without a formal complaint.

Let us be honest. Blessing CEO exploited a poorly-policed system. Instagram and TikTok have policies against health misinformation, but those policies are enforced by reviewers in California and Ireland, not in Lagos. There is no “verify this cancer claim” button that triggers a local hospital check. PayPal’s fraud detection is built for unauthorised transactions, not for donation fraud across borders. Not surprisingly, the Medical and Dental Council of Nigeria (MDCN) has been, to put it mildly, slack. This is what we call infrastructural invisibility; platforms build for their primary markets, leaving Global South users to navigate a Wild West of unverified claims. Blessing CEO and others like her understood this gap and drove a truck through it.

The fundamental question is not whether Blessing CEO is a fraud. That has been settled by the NMA. The real question is: How many more Blessing CEOs are out there, filming their tearful diagnoses at this very moment? The incentives remain unchanged. Faking cancer, if done with sufficient emotional skill, can yield N13 million in weeks. The cost of getting caught, so far, has been a deactivated Instagram account and a police petition that may or may not lead to prosecution. Until the cost exceeds the reward, we will see more of this. And each case desensitises the public, making it harder for genuine cancer patients to crowdfund. I can see Nigerian oncologists advising patients to film their chemotherapy sessions; else no one would believe them. That is the legacy of Blessing CEO. Not just fraud, but the erosion of trust itself.

I have written before about the unsettling side of the attention economy. This case should not surprise us. It is a mirror of something more troubling the replacement of logic by emotion; of facts with virality; of competence by performance. When a crook with a large social media presence can steal a cancer survivor’s medical report, broadcast it to millions, collect N13 million, and face only a temporary account deactivation, we are not dealing with a rogue influencer. We are dealing with a broken epistemology. The Nigerian Medical Association has done its job. The police have begun theirs. But the onus is on gullible followers of social media influencers like Blessing CEO. As they say on the streets, they should “borrow themselves sense,” to think before donations. For instance, would it have made a difference to treat that dubious video with the same scepticism we would apply to a roadside medicine hawker? The reason is simple. In the attention economy, “empty” performance is the most valuable currency. And we know that where there is value, there will always be thieves. Blessing CEO is not the first. She probably will not be the last. But if we do not change how we respond, she will not be remembered as a warning. She will be remembered as a pioneer.