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When Terror Pays (PART III B): The world has been here before

By Law & Society Magazine Investigations

Nigeria is hardly the first country to confront the painful choice between ending a war and delivering justice.

From Latin America to Africa and Europe, governments have wrestled with the same dilemma. Some chose dialogue. Others chose military victory. A few attempted to combine both. What distinguishes successful peace processes, however, is that very few simply welcomed violent actors back into society without demanding accountability.

The lesson emerging from decades of conflict resolution is remarkably consistent. Sustainable peace is rarely achieved by asking victims alone to forgive. It is built on a delicate balance between reconciliation and justice.

Nigeria’s experience appears to have tilted heavily towards reconciliation while leaving justice struggling to catch up.

Colombia: Peace Came With Accountability

Perhaps no modern example illustrates this balance better than Colombia.

For more than half a century, the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC) waged one of the world’s longest insurgencies. More than 220,000 people died, millions were displaced and entire communities disappeared under the weight of kidnappings, bombings and massacres.

By 2016, the Colombian government concluded that outright military victory was unlikely and entered negotiations with the rebels.

The resulting peace agreement attracted criticism from both supporters and opponents, but it rested on one principle that Nigeria’s own reintegration efforts have often lacked. Accountability.

Read Also: When Terror Pays (PART III A): When peace comes without justice

Instead of blanket amnesty, Colombia established the Special Jurisdiction for Peace, a transitional justice court empowered to investigate atrocities committed by both rebels and state actors. Former commanders who admitted responsibility and told the truth could receive reduced sentences involving restrictions on liberty rather than conventional imprisonment. Those who lied or refused to cooperate remained liable to full criminal prosecution.

Victims occupied the centre of the process.

Thousands participated in hearings, submitted evidence and demanded explanations from those responsible for atrocities. The message was clear. Peace required compromise. Justice remained non-negotiable.

Sierra Leone: Amnesty Was Not Enough

West Africa offers another important lesson.

Sierra Leone’s brutal civil war ended in 2002 after years of atrocities that included amputations, mass killings and the widespread recruitment of child soldiers. The peace agreement initially contained broad amnesty provisions intended to encourage combatants to disarm. International pressure quickly exposed the limitations of that approach.

The United Nations refused to recognise amnesty for war crimes, crimes against humanity and other serious violations of international humanitarian law. Instead, the Special Court for Sierra Leone was established to prosecute those who bore the greatest responsibility for the conflict.

Alongside criminal prosecutions, the country created a Truth and Reconciliation Commission to document abuses, hear victims’ testimonies and recommend institutional reforms. The combination acknowledged a difficult reality. Peace may require negotiation. Justice still requires consequences.

Northern Ireland: Politics Before Reintegration

The Good Friday Agreement remains one of history’s most studied peace accords.

After decades of sectarian violence known as “The Troubles,” Britain, Ireland and Northern Irish political leaders negotiated an agreement that fundamentally transformed the region. Prisoners linked to paramilitary organisations were released under carefully defined legal conditions. Weapons were decommissioned through internationally supervised processes. Political reforms accompanied security reforms.

Most importantly, the agreement emerged after years of structured negotiations involving governments, political parties, community organisations and international mediators. It was not simply an executive decision to forgive violence. It was a comprehensive constitutional settlement.

Even today, Northern Ireland continues to debate unresolved questions of accountability for past crimes. The peace process did not eliminate demands for justice. It merely created institutions capable of managing those demands.

Rwanda: Justice Before Reconciliation

Few societies have experienced violence on the scale witnessed in Rwanda during the 1994 genocide.

Nearly one million people were killed within approximately one hundred days. The country’s response combined international prosecutions through the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda with community-based Gacaca courts designed to process the enormous number of genocide cases. Confession could reduce punishment. Denial often attracted harsher penalties. The underlying philosophy remained consistent.

Reconciliation required acknowledgement. Forgiveness required truth. Victims were not expected simply to move on. The country insisted upon confronting the past before attempting to build the future.

What Nigeria Still Lacks

Nigeria has experimented with dialogue, rehabilitation and military operations.

What it has never fully developed is a nationally accepted transitional justice framework. There is no comprehensive truth commission examining the atrocities committed by bandits and insurgents. No special tribunal exists to distinguish those who planned massacres from those coerced into joining criminal groups.

Victims seldom appear at the centre of reintegration debates. Instead, public discussion often revolves around persuading perpetrators to surrender. The imbalance has become increasingly visible. Communities emptied by violence remain displaced years after attacks. Children kidnapped from schools continue to haunt national memory. Farmers pay protection levies simply to cultivate their own land.

Yet discussions about reintegration frequently focus on what former fighters need to restart their lives. The victims ask a haunting question. Who is helping us restart ours?

The Missing Voice

One of the most striking features of Nigeria’s security conversation is who is often absent. The victims. The widow whose husband never returned from his farm. The parents who sold everything they owned to raise ransom money. The child who watched armed men burn down a school. The farmer who now cultivates land under the constant fear of another attack. The families still living inside overcrowded displacement camps.

Their stories rarely dominate policy discussions. Instead, national attention frequently shifts towards convincing armed groups to embrace peace. That imbalance matters because successful transitional justice depends as much on restoring victims’ dignity as persuading perpetrators to abandon violence.

International experience repeatedly demonstrates that reconciliation imposed without justice rarely heals communities. It merely postpones unresolved grievances.

Governance Matters Too

Civil society organisations have consistently argued that security cannot be separated from governance.

The Executive Director of the Civil Society Legislative Advocacy Centre (CISLAC), Auwal Musa Rafsanjani, has repeatedly maintained that insecurity thrives where institutions are weak, corruption undermines public confidence and accountability remains selective.

His broader argument is that military responses alone cannot resolve conflicts rooted in poverty, exclusion, governance failures and institutional collapse. Many security scholars agree. Banditry today is no longer driven solely by ideology.

In many parts of northwestern Nigeria it has evolved into an organised criminal economy involving ransom payments, illegal taxation, cattle rustling, arms trafficking and control over rural territories. Breaking that economy requires more than dialogue. It demands stronger institutions capable of enforcing law consistently while rebuilding public trust.

Without accountability, negotiations risk becoming temporary pauses rather than permanent solutions.

Justice Is Also Deterrence

Supporters of reintegration often argue that offering former fighters another chance encourages defections and ultimately saves lives. There is merit in that argument. History shows that many conflicts have ended because combatants were offered incentives to surrender.

The challenge lies in ensuring that incentives do not become rewards for criminality. Criminal law serves not only to punish. It also deters.

If communities begin to believe that those responsible for mass kidnappings, village massacres and large-scale extortion may eventually negotiate favourable outcomes without meaningful accountability, confidence in justice inevitably weakens.

The consequences extend beyond security. Public faith in government begins to erode. Victims lose confidence in institutions. Communities increasingly resort to self-help and vigilante responses. The rule of law suffers.

The Question Nigeria Must Answer

Nigeria stands at another crossroads. Military operations continue. Bandits remain active across several states. Kidnapping has evolved into a multibillion-naira criminal enterprise. Entire communities continue to pay illegal taxes simply to survive.

Government must decide whether future reintegration efforts will remain largely administrative exercises or evolve into transparent legal processes grounded in justice, accountability and victims’ rights.

International experience offers an unmistakable lesson. Negotiation can stop wars. It cannot erase crimes. Peace agreements may silence guns. Only justice can restore confidence that the law protects everyone equally. That is the real challenge confronting Nigeria today. Not whether dialogue should occur. But whether peace purchased at the expense of accountability can ever produce lasting security.

For every former fighter welcomed back into society, there is a mother still searching for her abducted child. For every rehabilitation programme announced, there is a village waiting to be rebuilt. For every negotiation conducted behind closed doors, there are victims who have never been invited into the conversation. Until those voices are heard, Nigeria’s search for peace may remain incomplete.

And until justice occupies the same table as reconciliation, the country risks teaching a lesson no democracy can afford: that terror is eventually negotiated, while suffering is simply endured.

End of Phase III

To be continued.

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Echoes of Trauma: Life on Hold — The waiting that changes us (I)

By Lillian Okenwa

Not all exhaustion comes from long hours or heavy labour. Some of it comes from carrying a future that never seems to arrive.

Not the ordinary waiting that lasts a few minutes in traffic or a long queue at the bank, but the deeper kind that slowly settles into a person’s life. It is the waiting that stretches into months, sometimes years, until it begins to reshape how people think, dream and even pray.

Across Nigeria this morning, millions of people woke up carrying that weight.

A young graduate refreshed an email inbox again, hoping an employer had finally responded. A father counted the days until an overdue salary might arrive. A retired civil servant wondered whether this month would finally bring a pension. Somewhere, a mother stared at her phone, praying for news of a child who left home and never returned. A businessman waited for foreign exchange that could rescue his struggling company. Another family waited outside a courtroom, hoping justice would not be postponed once again.

Different stories.

The same waiting.

We often describe Nigeria as a resilient nation. That is true. We endure disappointments that would overwhelm many societies. We adjust to rising prices, unreliable electricity, worsening insecurity and economic uncertainty with remarkable determination.

Read Also: Echoes of Trauma: The love we deny ourselves

Yet resilience has a hidden cost. It asks people to keep moving while large parts of their lives remain suspended. Life does not stop while people wait.

Rent is still due. School fees must still be paid. Elderly parents still need medication. Younger siblings continue looking to older brothers and sisters for help. Weddings must be attended. Funerals require contributions. Every month introduces another financial obligation long before yesterday’s burden has been lifted.

Many Nigerians are trying to build lives of their own while carrying the weight of several others. It is a pressure that rarely appears in economic reports, yet it shapes countless homes.

A young woman finally secures her first job after years of searching. Before her first salary is fully spent, requests begin arriving. A cousin needs tuition. An uncle requires hospital treatment. There is money to contribute for a burial, another request for a wedding, another relative hoping for assistance with rent.

None of these requests comes from malice. They come from love, obligation and a culture that has always believed families should carry one another through difficult times. Yet there comes a point when even the strongest shoulders begin to ache.

Many people are no longer waiting only for prosperity. They are waiting for room to breathe. The language of young Nigerians reflects this reality. Words like sapa, hustle and burnout have become part of everyday conversation. Social media is full of jokes about empty wallets, impossible bills and surviving another month.

We laugh.

We create memes.

We turn hardship into comedy.

Humour has always been one of our greatest survival skills.

Still, behind the jokes are people whose emotional reserves are running dangerously low.

Life in Nigeria has become a continuous race. The alarm rings before dawn. Hours disappear in traffic. Work extends into evenings through messages that never seem to stop. Inflation rearranges carefully prepared budgets. Parents worry about school fees. Business owners calculate exchange rates before opening their shops. Farmers worry about insecurity before worrying about rainfall.

Every new day brings another calculation.

Another adjustment.

Another postponement.

What makes prolonged waiting especially difficult is that it rarely announces itself as trauma.

There are no bandages.

No visible scars.

No hospital admission.

Yet psychologists have long warned that prolonged uncertainty places enormous pressure on the human mind. The World Health Organization has repeatedly recognised chronic stress and uncertainty as major threats to mental wellbeing. When people spend months or years unable to predict what tomorrow may bring, anxiety grows, concentration suffers and hope gradually becomes harder to sustain.

That reality is becoming increasingly familiar across Nigeria. Many people continue going to work, attending church or mosque, laughing with friends and posting cheerful photographs online while privately wondering whether life has somehow become stuck.

The danger is not merely financial. It is psychological. There is a difference between being patient and being suspended. Patience expects movement. Suspension slowly begins to fear that movement may never come. That fear changes people.

Dreams are delayed.

Business plans remain inside notebooks.

Couples postpone marriage until conditions improve.

Young families delay having children.

Medical treatment is deferred.

Home ownership becomes an increasingly distant aspiration.

Years pass while people continue preparing for a future that never quite arrives. One postponed decision may not change a person’s life. A decade of postponement often does.

Mental health specialists describe prolonged uncertainty as one of the most emotionally demanding experiences human beings can endure. Family therapist Pauline Boss introduced the idea of “ambiguous loss” to explain the emotional burden carried by people living without resolution. Families of missing persons understand this well. So do relatives of kidnapped victims who wait endlessly for news. The suffering lies not only in what has happened, but in not knowing when, or whether, the waiting will end.

Nigeria has produced far too many such families. Parents still wait for children abducted from schools. Communities wait for justice after violent attacks. Victims of fraud wait years for court judgments. Patients wait for surgeries they cannot yet afford. Thousands of young people wait for opportunities worthy of the education they struggled to obtain.

Waiting has stealthily become one of the defining experiences of our national life. The emotional burden does not stop there. Comparison has made waiting even heavier.

Social media has created a world where everyone else’s breakthroughs appear immediate. Promotions are announced daily. New homes are unveiled. Wedding photographs fill timelines. Departure lounges become symbols of fresh beginnings. Success is constantly on display. For those whose own lives feel unchanged, the comparison can become deeply discouraging.

It is not envy.

It is discouragement.

People begin asking questions that have no easy answers.

“Am I doing something wrong?”

“Why does everyone else seem to be moving except me?”

“When will my own turn come?”

Those questions rarely remain on a phone screen.

Eventually, they settle inside the heart.

A lawyer and equity advocate, Lillian can be reached at [email protected]

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Inside Nigeria’s Security Paradox: Army recruitment row reopens painful questions about trust, terrorism and a war that refuses to end

LAW & SOCIETY MAGAZINE SPECIAL REPORT

PART I

As former Boko Haram fighters reportedly undergo Army recruitment screening, frontline soldiers are asking a question that has haunted Nigeria’s counterinsurgency campaign for years: Who can truly be trusted in a war where the enemy often seems one step ahead?

By all accounts, Nigeria’s counterinsurgency campaign has entered a new phase.

Thousands of Boko Haram fighters have surrendered. Camps that once housed hardened insurgents are now being transformed into rehabilitation centres. Government officials speak increasingly about reconciliation rather than perpetual warfare. The Borno State Government proudly points to what has become known as the “Borno Model”—a programme designed to persuade insurgents to abandon violence, undergo rehabilitation and return to civilian life.

On paper, it is a strategy rooted in pragmatism. Wars rarely end solely through bullets. Many conclude when combatants surrender, reconcile and return to society. Yet, away from policy documents and official speeches, another conversation is unfolding inside military barracks across Nigeria’s North-East.

It is a conversation shaped less by theory than by memory. Memory of colleagues killed in ambushes. Memory of military formations overrun in the dead of night. Memory of commanders whose movements appeared uncannily known to insurgents before attacks were launched.

That conversation has resurfaced with unusual intensity following reports that at least 40 rehabilitated former Boko Haram members were shortlisted for the Nigerian Army’s 91st Regular Recruits Intake and underwent medical screening at the Army’s 7 Division Military Hospital in Maiduguri.

Military authorities have yet to publicly explain the reports. But among serving soldiers, the development has reopened old wounds and uncomfortable questions. Not because rehabilitation itself is objectionable. But because trust, once shattered by years of insurgency, is extraordinarily difficult to rebuild.

A War That Changed Nigeria

When Boko Haram launched its insurgency in 2009, few imagined it would become one of Africa’s longest-running security crises. Entire communities across Borno, Yobe and Adamawa were emptied. Thousands of schools closed. Markets disappeared. Villages were burned. Families were scattered across internally displaced persons’ camps. Children grew into adulthood knowing little except conflict.

The human cost has been staggering. Tens of thousands of civilians have lost their lives. Millions have been displaced. Entire local economies have collapsed under the weight of prolonged violence. But civilians have not been the only victims. The Nigerian Armed Forces have paid an equally heavy price.

Over the years, soldiers have repeatedly found themselves confronting an enemy that evolved faster than many expected. What began as a loosely organised extremist movement gradually transformed into a sophisticated insurgency capable of coordinating complex assaults, deploying drones for surveillance, manufacturing improvised explosive devices and launching simultaneous attacks on multiple military locations.

For troops on the frontlines, every deployment became a journey into uncertainty.

The Officers Who Never Came Home

Every military institution prepares its personnel for sacrifice. What no military can easily absorb, however, is the repeated loss of experienced commanders. Over the past decade, Nigeria has lost scores of senior officers in combat, ambushes and terrorist attacks.

Among the most symbolic was the killing of Muhammed Ali, the Theatre Commander of Operation Lafiya Dole, who died in an ambush in Borno State in 2021 alongside several officers while leading operations against insurgents. His death shocked the country. Here was one of the military’s most experienced battlefield commanders, personally leading troops against insurgents—and paying the ultimate price.

More recently came the tragic death of retired Rabe Abubakar, who died after being abducted by armed bandits. His killing underscored another unsettling reality. Nigeria’s insecurity is no longer confined to the North-East.

Banditry in the North-West has evolved from cattle rustling into an organised criminal enterprise capable of confronting security forces, collecting taxes, occupying forests and challenging state authority across vast rural territories. The death of such senior officers sends shockwaves through military ranks.

It is not merely the loss of distinguished careers. It is the loss of institutional memory, battlefield experience and leadership forged over decades. Every fallen commander leaves behind soldiers who ask themselves the same question: How did the attackers know?

The Trust Deficit

That question now hangs heavily over the latest controversy.

According to multiple serving officers who spoke anonymously, concern inside military formations is not driven simply by the prospect of former insurgents joining the Army. It is driven by uncertainty over verification.

How were the candidates screened? What documentation supported their applications? Who vouched for them? What intelligence assessment concluded they no longer pose a security risk? Those questions matter because counterinsurgency is unlike conventional warfare.

The battlefield is not always defined by guns. It is defined by information. Knowing when troops will move. Knowing which road they will take. Knowing where helicopters will land. Knowing which commander is leading an operation. Those pieces of information can determine whether soldiers return home—or walk into an ambush.

Military officers interviewed for this story stop well short of accusing rehabilitated insurgents of compromising operations. But many acknowledge an unmistakable reality. Trust cannot be manufactured by policy. It must be earned over time.

Can People Truly Leave Extremism Behind?

Supporters of the Borno Model argue that rehabilitation is not an act of charity. It is a security strategy. Every fighter who abandons the battlefield potentially weakens insurgent organisations. Every defector can provide intelligence about terrorist structures. Every successful reintegration reduces the pool of active combatants.

Internationally, deradicalisation programmes have been used in countries ranging from Saudi Arabia to Indonesia and Colombia, although with varying degrees of success. Security experts generally agree that military force alone rarely defeats insurgencies. But they also acknowledge something equally important.

Deradicalisation succeeds only when accompanied by rigorous monitoring, careful vetting and sustained community confidence. That confidence remains fragile in Nigeria. Victims who watched relatives murdered struggle to accept former fighters returning to nearby communities. Soldiers who buried colleagues remain wary of sharing operational spaces with men who once fought against them.

Neither concern can simply be dismissed as emotional resistance to reconciliation. They reflect the lived experience of a conflict that has lasted more than sixteen years.

The Questions Government Must Answer

The latest controversy is not fundamentally about forty men. It is about transparency. If former insurgents are indeed being considered for military service, Nigerians deserve to understand the legal and security framework governing such a decision.

Was it approved by the Nigerian Army? Were intelligence agencies consulted? What additional vetting measures were applied? What safeguards exist against infiltration? And perhaps the most important question of all: How does the military reassure serving troops that operational security will never be compromised?

Until those questions receive credible answers, speculation will continue to fill the vacuum. That may prove almost as dangerous as the insurgency itself. Wars are fought not only with weapons. They are also fought with confidence. And confidence once lost, is among the hardest things for any army to recover.

To be Continued.

Coming in Part II: “The Enemy Who Knows Too Much” — We examine the disturbing pattern of military ambushes, the deaths of senior officers, the recent claims by bandit leader Kachalla Maha that he receives advance warning of troop movements, and what security experts say about insider leaks, intelligence failures and the evolving tactics of Nigeria’s armed groups. We’ll separate battlefield reality from propaganda while asking why some of the country’s most wanted terrorist and bandit leaders continue to communicate so openly despite years of military offensives.

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When Terror Pays (PART III A): When peace comes without justice

How Nigeria’s search for security has opened a fierce debate over amnesty, accountability and the rule of law

By Law & Society Magazine Investigations

Every nation confronted by prolonged violence eventually reaches a crossroads. One path demands relentless military pressure until every armed group is defeated. The other accepts that wars rarely end on the battlefield alone and leaves room for negotiation. Governments often choose the second path because they believe talking can save lives. Nigeria has spent nearly two decades walking both roads at the same time.

Troops have launched major offensives against Boko Haram, ISWAP and armed bandit groups across the North-East and North-West. Fighter jets have bombed camps hidden in forests. Thousands of suspected insurgents have been arrested or killed. Yet alongside the military campaign has emerged another strategy, one that remains deeply divisive: dialogue, rehabilitation and reintegration.

Supporters insist the approach has prevented further bloodshed and persuaded hundreds of fighters to surrender. Critics argue it has created a dangerous perception that mass violence can become a pathway to negotiation rather than punishment. That debate has returned with renewed force.

In June, the Federal Government announced that seven suspected Boko Haram and ISWAP commanders had been arrested at Katsina Airport after returning from the Hajj pilgrimage in Saudi Arabia. Interior Minister Olubunmi Tunji-Ojo said the suspects were identified through improved biometric integration linking immigration records with Nigeria’s national identity database.

The arrests were welcomed as evidence that technology is strengthening border security. They also raised questions that remain unanswered. How did individuals now suspected of links to terrorist organisations obtain travel documents, leave Nigeria and complete one of Islam’s holiest pilgrimages before attracting the attention of security agencies only upon their return?

Those questions became even more uncomfortable because the arrests came barely days after allegations, strongly denied by the Katsina State Government, that public funds had been used to sponsor bandit leaders for Hajj.

Read Also: When Terror Pays: Inside Nigeria’s controversial experiment with “repentant” bandits

Read Also: When Terror Pays: How Nigeria’s search for peace left thousands waiting for justice

The state government dismissed the allegation as false, politically motivated and completely without foundation. Whether true or false, the controversy exposed a much larger national anxiety. Many Nigerians are no longer asking only whether government should negotiate with armed groups. They are asking whether the country has gradually normalised impunity.

A Country Still Under Siege

The debate is unfolding against the backdrop of relentless violence.

Across Zamfara, Katsina, Sokoto, Kaduna, Niger and parts of Kebbi, armed groups continue to attack villages, abduct schoolchildren, impose illegal taxes, burn farms and demand multimillion-naira ransoms from communities already trapped by poverty.

Only days after the Hajj controversy dominated national headlines, residents of Dekara District in Niger State recounted how communities allegedly contributed ₦10 million demanded by bandits in exchange for peace. The agreement did not last.

According to residents, the same armed men later invaded the district headquarters and set the community’s primary school ablaze. Elsewhere, fresh attacks in Shiroro claimed lives and led to more kidnappings.

In Zamfara, fifteen villagers were buried after another deadly raid on Tungar Bore. The chairman of Talata Mafara Local Government broke down in tears during the funeral, publicly pleading for urgent federal intervention as grieving families lowered their loved ones into the ground.

In Katsina, another survivor described how armed men tied him up, poured petrol over his body and set him on fire after demanding money he did not have. He survived only because he repeatedly rolled across the sand until the flames died before a passer-by found him. These are not isolated tragedies.

They form part of a wider pattern that continues despite years of military operations, peace negotiations and reintegration programmes. For many communities, peace remains something they hear about in government statements rather than experience in their daily lives.

From Battlefield to Reintegration

Nigeria’s reintegration policy did not emerge in a vacuum. Governments around the world have long recognised that some conflicts cannot be resolved solely through force. Military victories may destroy camps and eliminate commanders, but they rarely erase the social, economic and ideological conditions that sustain insurgencies. This thinking has influenced several initiatives across Nigeria.

In the North-East, former Boko Haram members have participated in rehabilitation programmes designed to encourage defections and reduce recruitment into extremist groups. Several northwestern states have also experimented with dialogue involving traditional rulers, religious leaders and community mediators in an effort to persuade bandits to surrender.

Officials defending the strategy argue that every fighter persuaded to abandon violence represents fewer attacks on innocent civilians. They point to communities where temporary ceasefires reduced bloodshed and allowed displaced residents to begin returning home. Yet those gains have often proved fragile.

Some groups that accepted negotiations later resumed attacks. Others fragmented into smaller criminal networks beyond the reach of earlier agreements. The result has been an uncomfortable cycle in which governments repeatedly announce peace deals only for fresh massacres and kidnappings to expose their limitations. It has also left victims asking a question that grows louder after every new attack.

If those responsible for killing, kidnapping and extorting communities can eventually negotiate their way back into society, what becomes of justice?

Dialogue Is Not the Same as Amnesty

One of the greatest misconceptions surrounding Nigeria’s security debate is the tendency to treat dialogue and amnesty as identical concepts. They are not. Governments negotiate every day. Police negotiators speak with kidnappers to save hostages. Military commanders negotiate humanitarian access during armed conflicts. States negotiate ceasefires to reduce civilian casualties. Negotiation is a tool. Amnesty is something entirely different.

Amnesty carries legal consequences because it shields offenders from criminal liability, either partially or completely. That distinction matters because international law increasingly discourages blanket amnesties for crimes involving widespread killings, crimes against humanity and systematic attacks against civilians.

The United Nations has consistently maintained that peace agreements should not become mechanisms for protecting perpetrators of the gravest international crimes from accountability. Nigeria therefore faces an unusually complex legal challenge. Can government negotiate to persuade armed groups to surrender? Most legal scholars would answer yes.

Can it permanently excuse crimes involving mass murder, abduction, torture and sexual violence without undermining the rule of law? That question has become far more contentious.

The Constitution Meets the Battlefield

Every democratic government carries two obligations that sometimes collide. The first is to protect lives. The second is to uphold justice. During prolonged insurgencies those responsibilities often pull governments in opposite directions. Military commanders naturally prioritise ending violence. Victims demand accountability. Political leaders seek stability. Human rights advocates insist that peace built upon impunity rarely endures.

Nigeria’s Constitution does not expressly create a framework for negotiating with terrorist organisations. Instead, terrorism is addressed principally through statutory law, including the Terrorism (Prevention and Prohibition) Act, 2022, which criminalises membership, financing, recruitment and support for designated terrorist organisations. The legislation reflects a basic constitutional principle. Serious crimes should ordinarily attract investigation, prosecution and judicial determination. That expectation explains why reintegration programmes have remained controversial.

Many Nigerians accept that lower-level recruits who were coerced into joining armed groups may deserve rehabilitation after careful screening. Public concern becomes sharper when senior commanders accused of orchestrating attacks appear to receive rehabilitation without transparent judicial processes. Critics argue that this risks creating two justice systems: one for ordinary citizens and another for those who command enough firepower to force government into negotiations.

Falana’s Constitutional Warning

Among the strongest legal voices questioning Nigeria’s approach is senior human rights lawyer Femi Falana, SAN.

Speaking during Amnesty International Nigeria’s Annual General Meeting in Abuja earlier this year, Falana argued that negotiating with groups already designated as terrorists raises serious legal concerns under Nigeria’s anti-terrorism legislation. His concern extends beyond policy. It goes directly to constitutional governance.

According to Falana, governments cannot selectively suspend criminal law simply because perpetrators possess weapons or control territory. If terrorism has been criminalised through legislation enacted by the National Assembly, those accused of committing terrorist offences should ordinarily be investigated and prosecuted in accordance with the law.

His position does not reject dialogue in every circumstance. Rather, it questions whether negotiations can lawfully replace accountability where grave criminal offences have allegedly been committed. The argument resonates with many victims’ groups who believe justice has gradually become secondary to political expediency.

Every announcement welcoming “repentant” fighters back into society inevitably revives painful memories among families still searching for missing relatives or rebuilding communities destroyed by violence.

The Accountability Gap

The controversy surrounding reintegration is not simply about whether former fighters deserve a second chance. It is about what happens before that second chance is granted. In many established transitional justice systems around the world, reintegration follows structured legal processes.

Truth is established.

Victims are heard.

Responsibility is acknowledged.

Reparations are considered.

Only then does society debate forgiveness.

Nigeria’s experience has often appeared less structured. Announcements of rehabilitation programmes frequently generate more public information about benefits available to former fighters than about justice available to victims. That imbalance has fuelled widespread resentment. Communities that lost schools, farms, markets and family members frequently ask why those who destroyed their lives seem to receive greater state attention than those forced to survive the consequences.

For displaced families living in temporary shelters years after fleeing attacks, reconciliation without accountability can feel less like peace and more like abandonment.

A Dangerous Signal?

Security experts remain divided over whether repeated negotiations unintentionally encourage further violence. One school of thought argues that offering reintegration creates incentives for defections and weakens insurgent organisations from within. Another fears precisely the opposite.

If armed groups conclude that sustained violence eventually attracts negotiations, financial incentives or rehabilitation packages, criminality itself may become a bargaining tool. That concern has grown in parts of the North-West where bandit groups have repeatedly entered discussions only to resume attacks months later. Each failed agreement deepens public scepticism. Each fresh kidnapping strengthens the perception that violence carries few lasting consequences.

That perception, whether accurate or not, may ultimately prove as dangerous as the violence itself.

End of Part A

Part B will examine how other countries confronted similar dilemmas, comparing Nigeria’s approach with Colombia, Sierra Leone, Rwanda and Northern Ireland, before exploring why many transitional justice experts argue that lasting peace depends not only on persuading fighters to lay down their arms, but also on ensuring victims are seen, heard and given justice. It will conclude by asking the defining question at the heart of Nigeria’s security crisis: Can a nation defeat terror if accountability remains negotiable?

To be continued.

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Ìyá Alákàrà: The poor can’t fry their way out of poverty, By Suyi Ayodele

Somewhere along Ososami Road, Oke Ado, Ibadan, perhaps in the late 1960s, a little girl in school uniform stood beside an old woman frying àkàrà. The bean cakes hissed in red palm oil. Their aroma drifted across the street, teasing the nostrils of hungry schoolchildren. The girl watched her classmates spend their lunch money on one or two pieces, slip them into their pockets, and nibble at them while the teacher worked arithmetic on the blackboard. It is a memory millions of Nigerians of her generation share.

I am tempted to say that the girl was Remi, Nigeria›s First Lady. But I will not. I will only say that memories such as these may explain her recent advice that women could earn a living by frying àkàrà, making kúlíkúlí or roasting corn. It was not the counsel of a cruel woman. It was the recollection of someone whose childhood taught her that these were honourable trades through which hardworking women raised families, built houses and educated their children.

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The difficulty is that memory is not reality. The Nigeria that produced those àkàrà women no longer exists. Beans, palm oil, charcoal, transportation, rent, multiple taxes, insecurity and inflation have transformed what was once a modest survival trade into an enterprise requiring capital many poor women simply do not possess. Worse still, millions of desperate Nigerians cannot all become àkàrà sellers. Someone must still have enough disposable income to buy the àkàrà.

We did not have the privilege of a modern-day nursery and primary school. As local boys and girls in our gaari (local) schools, we created our own nursery rhymes. Our muse is the local environment and the activities therein. Our rhymes are not just for fun. They carry messages of reverence, caution and, in some cases, derision. One of such rhymes is presented below:

Call: E má fì’yá alákàrà se’ré – Don’t joke with the woman selling àkàrà 

Response: Ìyá Alákàrà – the woman selling àkàrà 

Call: Óhún ta sánsán sí mi ní›mú – she sends good aroma to my nostrils

Response: Ìyá Alákàrà – the woman selling àkàrà 

Call: Óhún ta sànsàn sí mi l›ófun – she sends sweet sensations to my oesophagus

Response: Ìyá Alákàrà – the woman selling àkàrà 

The above rhyme is a tribute to the women who sold àkàrà in those good old days, when those in power had blood flowing through their veins. We sang the rhyme to appreciate the importance of àkàrà sellers to our gastronomic needs. Those women were simply handy as they ensured that our school uniform’s pockets remained stained with oil. 

How many were they in my primary school days? Maybe three or, at most, five. From Temidire to Odo Oro, Oke Ijebu-Agege to Ikunri, they were not more than five àkàrà sellers in those days. 

Àkàrà business, to those of us from the countryside, is no child›s play. It is the business of the ‘elders’ – very esoteric! Only those who are wise and discerning venture into the trade. In my place, for instance, you must take the oath that you would use only palm oil to fry your àkàrà before you would be allowed to venture into the business. This generation, I understand, will never comprehend the fear that someone can use human blood to fry àkàrà instead of palm oil. That suggestion itself sounds silly to them. 

But we knew then that it was possible. Hence the need for the would-be àkàrà sellers to go through the rituals of oath-taking before they could set up the business. A woman who could undergo the esoteric rite of entry to the àkàrà business is not the one who should be joked with. Our local rhyme should therefore make sense now, right? 

Irò is the Yoruba equivalent of the English word, contemporary. The Yoruba age-grade system categorises children born within a decade bracket as irò. Members of the same age grade, the differences in their ages notwithstanding, must have the same experiences. This proposition becomes truer if the children share the same countryside orientation or upbringing. 

There couldn›t have been much difference between the Oke Ado, Ibadan, of the late 50s to early 70s and the Ekiti countryside of that period. Children of those periods, who are today›s grandmothers and grandfathers, shared the same experiences. They saw various àkàrà sellers at their trades. 

They knew that apart from the items required for the rite of entry, starting up an àkàrà venture did not cost an arm and a leg. With sékélé money, a small space, half a gallon of palm oil and two mudus of beans, one could easily become the CEO, Remi Alákàrà Nigeria Limited. 

Auntie Remi Tinubu, sorry, Mummy Remi Tinubu (we call all our female pastors and the wives of our pastors Mummy in the Pentecostal), is the wife of our President. She had her formative years at Ososami Street, Oke Ado, Ibadan. Well-planned Oke Ado was an elite part of Ibadan of that time. As a daughter of a well-to-do man, the now 65-year-old woman must have seen a sizeable number of ákàrà sellers in her younger days.

She must have rendered the Ibadan version of our local rhyme several times then with the children in her neighbourhood. The picture of the small women frying àkàrà in their corners and making enough money to train their children, build houses and do other things must have registered in her memory. What a child learns in the cradle is usually difficult to forget.

Mummy Remi Tinubu, therefore, should not be blamed for retaining those old memories of how not too-fortunate children of her time stuffed àkàrà into the pocket of their school’s skirt, their hands travelling intermittently between the pocket and her mouth while their Eskisi mas worked the Arithmetic sums on the chalkboard. When caught, they paid for it. Boys and girls of our generation did that. Little wonder then that the very part of our uniform to go off is the pocket!

What about kúlíkúlí, that African biscuit made from groundnut? Nobody in Mrs. Tinubu’s generation could have missed the experience of the delicious kombo of kúlíkúlí, and gaari. That pair remains a saviour of the not-too-rich members of the society.

The making of kúlíkúlí is never the pastime of the people from my area. The delicacy comes in different shapes and sizes. Mostly ‘imported’ to our locality by the alájàpá (itinerant traders) women who travelled as far as Patigi in present-day Kwara State, mothers bought the edible in large quantities to compliment the gaari lunch of their children as they returned from school.

On the way to our schools then, we had some retailers who sold kúlíkúlí. The attractive ways the items were displayed drew the children to the stands to buy. Of course, most of the children used their lunch money to buy kúlíkúlí, only to starve during lunch break, and must beg their mates to give out of their lunch.

To discourage a child from spending his or her lunch money on kúlíkúlí, our teachers then dropped yet another school rhyme: kúlíkúlí aládun, ó ún kó’mo l’ólè (sweet kúlíkúlí teaches a child how to steal). Mummy Remi Tinubu could not have also missed that school rhyme of that epoch. Again, the memory stuck for a good adult to recollect.

Then we come to àgbàdo (maize). It must have been a taboo in those days in my place to roast maize as a venture. Who would buy it in the first instance when virtually everyone grew the crop? My first cultural shock was around 1978, when, on the streets of Lagos, I saw women roasting maize and people were buying it! What? Àgbàdo sísun (roast maize) of all trades! God forbid. That should be the late 80s and early 90s enterprise in Ekiti and some other states of the Federation.

But the situation is different nowadays. Roast maize or ‘roasted corn’ in our Standard Nigerian English (SNE), is commonplace. And we are in the season of maize. Every street corner is dotted with one stand or the other, of women roasting maize or selling the cooked ones. The trade is seasonal, and so the profit from it. When the maize season is gone, those in the trade move to other commodities. Roasting of maize is not a trade one should take as a permanent venture. Life goes on for the average Nigerian masses, who must endure the pain of the economic woes inflicted on them by the locusts in power.

After eating up the nation’s vegetation, the ruiners we call rulers turn around to insult our sensibilities by making suggestions as to how we can help ourselves instead of lamenting that the government has brought the nation to its knees! Because they don’t suffer the same maladies as the people they have subjected to untold hardship, those in power show a high degree of disconnect when they make projections as to what the common man or woman on the streets can do to earn a living in a country where there is no life!

Mummy Remi Tinubu (pardon my frequent recourse to my Pentecostal orientation here. Having just escaped being ‘excommunicated’ for being ‘rude’ to a church constituted authority, I must not be caught on this page addressing a senior Pastor in our Mission with the wrong appellation) suffered the malady of leadership disconnect penultimate Wednesday, when she suggested that since frying àkàrà, baking kúlíkúlí and roasting maize would not cost the head of an elephant and the intestine of an ant, Nigerians should go into the ventures.

She gave the advice when she empowered some women with a grant of N50,000 each, to establish any venture of their own. I watched the full video, where the First Lady of the Federation made the remarks. I have also read countless arguments for and against the propositions. From whichever angle one views the suggestions, one cannot but agree that the reality of the times we are in as a country is completely lost on our leaders.

Can I explain, please?

The first indicator that Mummy Remi Tinubu is not attuned to the suffering in the land is the amount of money she gave out as ’grants’ to the beneficiaries. When was the last time she visited Wuse Market, for instance? When was the last time the First Lady bought tomatoes, onions and other ingredients on her own? How much is her N50,000 worth today in the economy run and ruined by her husband, the President?

Before saying that to start a maize roasting business does not require much money, did she carry out any market survey to determine the price of a bag of maize? What about the cost of transportation? How much does a bag of charcoal go for in the market today? Who pays for the rent of the space the maize roaster will put her stand? From the same N50,000? What about local government fees? Who takes care of the street urchins who will naturally come around as non-state actors in revenue collection? Are the maize farmers still on their farms? How much of their maize plantation has been fed to cows by AK-47-wielding herders? I can go on and on.

What about àkàrà? From the beans to palm oil, spices to the spaces for the àkàrà sellers, how much of the N50,000 ‘grant’ will be left? More importantly, if all the beneficiaries go into àkàrà business, who buys from whom? And if we may ask: how many women in the catchment areas of the ‘grant’ have been captured? Should we also ask for the source(s) of the ‘grant’? Is it part of our patrimony or funds from the inherited estate of the First Family?

As for those who will sell kúlíkúlí, is she aware that groundnut farmers in the North pay bandits before they can plant, and also pay when they want to harvest? Will the cost of production not be built into the price of a bag of groundnuts?

Less than a month ago, the First Lady was spotted somewhere donating brand-new SUVs to some Women Leaders of the ruining and ruling All Progressives Congress (APC). She also ‘commanded’ all governors under the banner of the APC to give the same SUVs to the party’s Women Leaders in their various states. Now, we ask: what is the cost of an SUV compared to the N50,000 ‘grant’ given to the hapless women-beneficiaries? Who should deserve better treatments between political leeches decorated as women leaders and the downtrodden women pummeled by the voodoo economic policies of this administration?   

Who will tell Mummy Remi Tinubu that the àkàrà sellers of her days in Sapele, few as they were then, could not be compared to the suffering masses of today? How would the First Lady, who numbers among the few privileged women to have married billionaires, understand that it is never the prayer of the àkàrà sellers of yore that any of their offspring would take up the àkàrà business? Who will ask her to take recourse to her Yoruba background where it is often prayed that ìran méta kìí t›òsì (three generations must not suffer the consequences of poverty)?

And, even at the risk of final ‘excommunication’, may I politely ask Mummy Remi Tinubu how many of her children, nieces, cousins, relations and associates are into àkàrà, kúlíkúlí and corn roasting ventures? About two weeks ago, the senator representing Edo North senatorial District, Comrade Adams Oshiomhole, said that the NNPCL alleged that the children of senators and those of the mighty and big in the nation are the ones working in the national oil company. Why has our Mother Excellency not taken her campaign of small-money-businesses like àkàrà, kúlíkúlí and maize roasting, to those of her ilk in power? Why is it convenient for her dog to breastfeed its own puppies but scout for the litters of grasscutters for dinner?

As some argued, the insults from those in authority, the way they talk down on the masses, their impunity and the leadership arrogance they display, speak volumes of their personalities. I read those comments and my mind went straight to my undergraduate sociology teacher, Professor Kunle Ogunbameru, and his allusion to the theory of Social Insensitivity, where the scholar submitted (not in his exact words, anyway), that leaders with interpersonal insensitivity often fail to read the clues that would have enabled them to recognise how their actions negatively impact the lives of others.

The tragedy, therefore, is not that Mummy Remi Tinubu remembers the women who sold àkàrà. She should. Those women deserve honour. The tragedy is that those who govern Nigeria remember the poverty of yesterday but have forgotten the economics of today. They speak as though enterprise alone can defeat inflation, insecurity and collapsing purchasing power. It cannot. Governments are elected not merely to advise citizens to endure hardship but to remove its causes. The old àkàrà sellers prospered because they worked in an economy that still rewarded effort. Today›s poor are being asked to fry their way out of a crisis they did not create.

The views expressed by contributors are strictly personal and not of Law & Society Magazine.

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Lokoja Judgment Under Fire: Why J.S. Okutepa says the court erred in reopening the NDC case

The legal battle over the Nigeria Democratic Congress (NDC) has entered a new phase, with some of Nigeria’s most respected constitutional lawyers now dissecting not just the outcome of the Federal High Court’s ruling in Lokoja but the procedure that produced it. Among them is Senior Advocate of Nigeria, Jibrin. S. Okutepa who argues that the court overlooked a critical procedural requirement before setting aside its own earlier judgment compelling INEC to register the party. In this commentary, he explains why, in his view, the decision raises troubling questions about judicial discretion, due process and the administration of justice.

Read Also: Courtroom Earthquake: How one Lokoja judgment could redraw Nigeria’s political map ahead of 2027

Read Also: When Terror Pays: How Nigeria’s search for peace left thousands waiting for justice

Hear Chief Okutepa, SAN:

I have resisted the urge to comment on the ruling of Hon Mr Justice Dashen of the Federal High Court sitting in Lokoja on the NDC matter until I read the judgement. Having read the judgement I am just wondering why the learned trial judge agreed to set the judgement his lordship gave in December 2025 wherein INEC the only Defendant in that case was ordered to register NDC as a political party.

That order was obeyed and NDC registered as a political party. Now an association known as Peace Movement Party PMP was never a party to that judgement. So when an application was filed on the 5th May 2026, the application had two prayers. Praye on3 was for extension of time to apply to set aside the said judgement and an order setting aside the said judgment.

The learned trial judge in the ruling under review set out the two prayers in the motion in the ruling but his lordship did not consider at all prayer one that deals with extension of time to apply to have the judgment set aside. Why. Nobody can hadzard a guess. But was his lordship right. I do not think so.

The principle of law is well established that where a person seeks extension of time within which to apply to set aside a judgment entered in his absence, the applicant must satisfy two conditions, namely good and substantial reasons for the failure to appear or defend the action; and show that there is a prima facie defence on the merits, usually by exhibiting a proposed statement of defence disclosing triable issues.

These two conditions are conjunctive, not disjunctive. In other words, both conditions must co-exist before the court can exercise its discretion in favour of the applicant. Failure to satisfy either is fatal. The Supreme Court in Williams vs Hope Rising Voluntary Funds Society held that an applicant seeking to set aside a judgment entered in default must: show good reasons for the default; and disclose a defence on the merits.

In fact the first hurdle must be crossed before a consideration can be given to the second question. The discretion of the court is exercised only where both requirements are met. In Nalsa & Team Associates vs. NNPC, the Supreme Court reaffirmed that the applicant must satisfy the court as to: the reason for the default; and the existence of a defence raising triable issues.

In Skenconsult (Nig.) Ltd. vs Ukey, even though principally dealing with judgments entered without jurisdiction or without service, the Supreme Court also distinguished cases where the court’s discretion to set aside a regular judgment depends upon the applicant satisfying the recognised conditions.

In A.C.B. Plc vs Losada (Nig.) Ltd, the Supreme Court reiterated that a party seeking to set aside a regular judgment must explain the default and show a defence on the merits. In Macaulay vs. NAL Merchant Bank Ltd the court emphasized that both conditions are prerequisites before discretion can be exercised. Are these conditions conjunctive or disjunctive? The authorities consistently state that the conditions are conjunctive, not disjunctive.

The applicant must establish both: good and substantial reasons for the failure to appear; and a defence on the merits. The use of the word “and” in the Supreme Court decisions is deliberate. The courts have repeatedly refused applications where only one condition was established. A commonly quoted statement of the law is that the applicant must show good reasons for his absence and disclose a defence on the merits before the court can exercise its discretion in his favour.

In this ruling, his lordship left out most fundamental judicial function and did not interrogate the reason for failure to apply to have the judgment set aside before INEC obey it. The court did not give us the opportunity to know what informed its reasons to set aside the judgment when there is no finding on the point why the applicants waited till 4th May 2026 before they apply to set aside the judgment. It appears there are more the public did not know.

J. S. Okutepa, SAN.

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Five things you need to know about WhatsApp usernames

WhatsApp has announced plans to introduce usernames, allowing users to connect and chat without having to share their phone numbers.

According to the Meta-owned messaging platform, the feature will be rolled out globally to its three billion account holders over the next few months. Having commenced Monday, June 29, 2026, users will now be able to reserve a unique username through the app, while names of certain high-profile public officials and celebrities will be reserved and unavailable for others to use.

The company said users would be free to remove or change their usernames at any time. Once the feature is fully activated, people will be able to connect by exchanging usernames only, while existing options to block or report unwanted messages will remain available.

WhatsApp’s Head of Product, Alice Newton-Rex, said the company had received feedback from users who did not always want to disclose their phone numbers in order to communicate with others, particularly in group chats.

ALSO READ: WhatsApp to allow people chat without swapping phone numbers

She said the feature would “give users control over how they choose to show up” on the app.

Here are some key things to know about WhatsApp usernames: 

Chat without sharing your phone number

Once the feature launches later this year, users who enable usernames will be able to message people or businesses for the first time without revealing their phone number.

Reserve your username now

WhatsApp is opening username reservations starting this week. Users can reserve an optional username through Settings > Account > Username before the feature is rolled out globally over the coming months.

Privacy at the centre of the feature

WhatsApp says there will be no public username directory or search suggestions. People must know your exact username to contact you, and users can also enable an optional username key for an extra layer of control over who can send them messages.

Creators, businesses and organisations can keep their identity

WhatsApp will allow eligible creators, small businesses, and organisations to claim the same username they already use on Instagram or Facebook, helping them maintain a consistent online presence.

Usernames optional and will roll out gradually

Using a username is not mandatory. WhatsApp will introduce the feature in phases over the coming months and will notify users within the app when it becomes available in their country.

Tribuneonline

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End of the Teen Influencer? How Britain’s under-16 ban could rewrite the future of TikTok Stars

Prime Minister Sir Keir Starmer announced a sweeping legislative mandate that will legally prohibit children under the age of 16 from accessing major social media platforms, including TikTok, Instagram, Snapchat, YouTube, Facebook, and X. 

With the first phase of regulatory frameworks expected to clear Parliament before the end of the year, tech platforms are being given a firm deadline of Spring 2027 to fully implement the restrictions. 

For the thousands of underage UK content creators who have built lucrative careers, millions of followers, and brand partnerships, this policy represents a sudden and absolute end to their digital livelihoods.

In this article, Tribune Online examines the profound operational reality of this upcoming statutory ban, breaking down exactly how the policy will function, why the government is enforcing it, and the immediate steps tech platforms and young creators must take to navigate the impending legal transition.

Why the UK Government is enforcing 2027 Ban

According to official reports from the UK Government published on GOV.UK, the legislation is designed to “give kids their childhood back” by removing them from algorithmic ecosystems that promote addictive scrolling and peer validation.

Technology Secretary Liz Kendall stated that tech conglomerates have repeatedly failed to protect minors from systemic online hazards, leaving the government with no choice but to strip power away from the platforms and return it to parents. 

The decision directly addresses escalating mental health crises, the rapid spread of harmful or non-age-appropriate material, and the vulnerabilities associated with unrestricted communication between strangers and minors. 

By aligning its legal framework with similar models pioneered by Australia, the UK is establishing a rigid regulatory boundary intended to fundamentally alter how future generations interact with technology.

READ ALSO: Echoes of Trauma: The love we deny ourselves

How under-16 account purge will work

The enforcement of the Spring 2027 ban will place the entire legal and financial burden directly onto the tech platforms rather than on parents or individual children. 

Under the supervision of the regulatory body Ofcom, platforms will be legally required to execute a systematic purge of all existing accounts verified or suspected to belong to users under the age of 16. 

To achieve compliance, companies like Meta and ByteDance must implement rigorous, “highly effective age assurance” technologies to vet their entire user bases. 

According to data published by the House of Commons Library, approximately 95% of teenagers aged 13 to 15 in the UK currently maintain active profiles on these networks, meaning millions of accounts face mandatory deactivation or suspension within the next several months.

Step-by-Step: How platforms will enforce age verification

Step 1: Implementing Advanced Biometric Scanning: Social media applications will integrate AI-driven facial age estimation software during login prompts, requiring users to look into their front-facing cameras to verify physical maturation markers.

Step 2: Requiring Third-Party Credential Verification: Users flagged by algorithmic filters will be forced to submit government-issued identification cards, valid passports, or localized credit card checks to verify their exact date of birth.

Step 3: Evaluating Historical Account Metadata:Platforms will cross-reference historical user behavioral data, typing patterns, and connected network circles to identify and flag accounts that have falsified their age.

Step 4: Instituting Mandatory Feature Hard-Locks: For users hovering on the age boundary, systems will automatically disable core functional features such as live streaming capabilities, algorithmic direct messaging from unknown accounts, and user-to-user communications on connected gaming feeds.

Tribuneonline

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Oraka vs Oraka and the impact of duress (2), By Ebun-Olu Adegboruwa, SAN

Whether Agreement Made Under Duress is Binding and Enforceable:

An agreement entered into under duress is not binding and enforceable, it is voidable. In this case, aside from the undertaking extracted from the appellant on 18 th April 2011, while the criminal charge was pending, there was no prior indication by either party that they intended to enter into a memorandum of undertaking in relation to the division of the properties. It is apparent that but for the undertaking tied to the withdrawal of the criminal charge, the issue of property division via the MOUs would not have arisen at that time.

Thus, though the appellant had a period of twelve days between the undertaking and the MOU 1, the criminal charge against the appellant in which the 1st respondent was the nominal complainant remained pending until 7th October 2011 when it was withdrawn by the 1st respondent after the MOUs had been entered into.

That constituted continuing evidence of duress. The appellant was, throughout that period, exposed to the apprehension and anxiety naturally associated with a subsisting criminal charge. Although he was advised by learned counsel and had correspondences written on his behalf, the overarching coercive environment remained and his decisions were influenced by it. In the circumstances, the trial court was right in holding that MOU 1 was tainted by duress.

That duress persisted at the time MOU 2 was executed. The linkage of the MOUs to the withdrawal of the pending criminal charge rendered the voluntariness of the appellant’s consent doubtful. The Court of Appeal therefore erred in treating the duress as having dissipated merely by the passage of time without the extinguishment of the underlying coercive factor. Therefore, the MOUs were executed under continuing duress and are voidable at the instance of the appellant. The MOU 1 and MOU 2 are void for being executed under duress. Consequently, any agreement, obligation, or purported disposition of rights arising from the said MOUs is also void.

When Court of Appeal Can Make Orders Not Sought on Appeal:

Pursuant to section 15 of the Court of Appeal Act, once the court undertakes re-evaluation of evidence, it is empowered to assume full jurisdiction over the proceedings and to make such orders as are necessary for determining the real issues in controversy. In this case, having reconsidered the evidence, the Court of Appeal found it necessary, in the interest of justice, to grant orders flowing from its findings and sought at the trial court. Though the specific reliefs were not the direct basis of the cross-appeal, it is evident from the notice of appeal to the Court of Appeal that the complaint extended to the entire decision of the trial court on the ownership of the properties.

The order made by the Court of Appeal was therefore in consequence of the court’s findings on the evidence on record. It would not have served the interest of justice for the Court of Appeal, after re-evaluation, to leave its conclusions without the necessary consequential orders. In this case, the Court of Appeal acted within its powers in granting some of the reliefs sought by the 1 st respondent in her counter-claim.

The Power of Court to Make Consequential Order:

A court must base its decision on the issues submitted by the parties. Nevertheless, a court retains the inherent jurisdiction to make consequential orders to give effect to its judgment. It is also irrelevant that the particular order was not specifically asked for, provided that it flows naturally from the decision reached and did not confer unearned advantage. In this case, the Court of Appeal acted within its powers in granting some of the reliefs sought by the 1 st respondent in her counter-claim.

When Supreme Court will not Interfere with Concurrent Findings of facts by Lower Courts:

The Supreme Court will not interfere with the concurrent findings of facts by lower courts where they are not shown to be perverse and no exceptional circumstance has been established to warrant the court’s intervention. In this case, the trial court, after evaluating the evidence, found that the MOUs were executed on the dates appearing on their faces, and the Court of Appeal upheld that finding. The trial court also made a specific finding that the deed of assignment in respect of two detached houses at Lekki-Epe Expressway, Lekki Scheme 1, Lagos State was issued in the name of Ashley Okara, and that finding was also upheld by the Court of Appeal. The appellant did not show that the concurrent findings are perverse. So, the Supreme Court will not interfere with the findings.

The Attitude of Court to Academic Matters:

The court does not engage in academic or hypothetical inquiries.

CONCLUSION

Generally, duress is a legal concept that arises when a person is compelled to enter into a transaction or agreement through unlawful threats, force, or undue pressure. The law requires that agreements be entered into voluntarily, with the free consent of all parties. Where consent is obtained through duress, the validity of the agreement is affected. In our clime however, law enforcement agencies apply this crude tactic due to lack of capacity to undertake forensic investigations, for lack of adequate funding, amongst other factors. In frustration, the aggression is wrongly transferred to the suspect, in employing force, coercion and at times brute violence, to extract the so-called confessional statements. In employing duress, state actors invariably admit to the failure of due process and their preference for the use of actual or threatened violence, unlawful confinement, economic pressure, or other forms of coercion, that deprive a person of the freedom to make an independent decision. In most cases, the pressure is significant enough to overcome the person’s free will. The principal effects of duress include:

  1. Voidable Agreements: A contract entered into under duress is generally not automatically void but voidable at the option of the injured party. The victim may choose to affirm or rescind the agreement once the duress has ceased.
  2. Right to Rescind the Contract: The affected party may apply to a court to set aside the transaction and restore both parties to their original positions, provided this can be done fairly. This was the case in Oraka v Oraka, where the aggrieved party utilized his right to challenge the agreements in court and to void them.
  3. Loss of Genuine Consent: Since consent is not freely given, one of the essential elements required for a valid contract is absent. Parties must be ad idem for any agreement to be valid and binding.
  4. Possible Award of Damages: In some cases, the injured party may recover damages if the duress caused financial loss or other harm.
  5. Protection of Public Policy: Courts discourage coercion and uphold the principle that contracts should result from voluntary agreement rather than intimidation or unlawful pressure.

In essence, duress undermines the foundation of contractual relationships by destroying the element of free consent. The law therefore provides remedies to protect parties who have been forced into agreements against their will. To ensure the enforceability of any transaction or agreement, all parties must enter into it voluntarily and without unlawful pressure.

Read Also: Oraka vs Oraka and the dangers of duress (1)

MAKING IT WORK

There is a need to address the issue of duress headlong in order to stem the ugly tide. The following suggestions, though not exhaustive, can provide some practical guidelines on how to stop the incidences of duress.

  1. Promote Legal Awareness: Educate individuals and businesses about their contractual rights and the legal consequences of coercion. From experience, the aggressor takes undue advantage of the victim due to ignorance of their rights under the law.
  2. Encourage Independent Legal Advice: Parties should seek legal counsel before signing important contracts, especially where significant financial or property interests are involved. It is better to cancel a proposed contract than have it annulled upon execution.
  3. Ensure Voluntary Consent: Agreements should be signed freely, without threats, intimidation, or undue pressure. Adequate time should be given for parties to review the terms.
  4. Document the Negotiation Process: Keeping written records, emails, and witness statements can help prove that negotiations were conducted fairly and voluntarily. As is presently the case in criminal investigation, video and photographic evidence should be deployed.
  5. Strengthen Law Enforcement: Authorities should promptly investigate and prosecute acts of intimidation, extortion, or violence used to force people into agreements. Police officers whose cases are confirmed to arise from torture or any other form of duress should not just lose their cases but also pay for their malady.
  6. Adopt Clear Organizational Policies: Businesses and institutions should establish policies prohibiting coercive practices in negotiations and contracting, such that these provisions are embedded into the agreement.
  7. Provide Effective Dispute Resolution Mechanisms: Access to mediation, arbitration, and the courts allows parties to resolve disputes without resorting to threats or force.
  8. Encourage Ethical Business Practices: Organizations should promote honesty, transparency, and fairness in all commercial dealings.

These cases have been highlighted for the attention of the law enforcement agencies to be more conscious of the rights of citizens in order to avoid the pitfalls of criminal prosecution.

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Courtroom Earthquake: How one Lokoja judgment could redraw Nigeria’s political map ahead of 2027

By Johnson Agu

NDC vows appeal after Federal High Court reverses its own registration order, igniting a constitutional battle over judicial powers, democratic rights and the future of opposition politics.

For months, the Nigeria Democratic Congress (NDC) believed it had crossed the biggest hurdle confronting any new political movement in Nigeria.

After winning a landmark judgment compelling the Independent National Electoral Commission (INEC) to register it as a political party, the fledgling platform wasted little time behaving like one. It recruited members across the federation, established party structures, organised congresses from the ward to the national level, held a national convention, conducted primary elections and began positioning itself for the 2027 general elections.

Then, in a dramatic twist few anticipated, the same Federal High Court in Lokoja that had opened the door to the party’s existence effectively slammed it shut.

Justice Isah Dashen set aside his December 2025 judgment directing INEC to register the party, triggering what is rapidly becoming one of the most consequential constitutional disputes ahead of Nigeria’s next presidential election.

For the NDC, the ruling is not merely another courtroom setback. It represents what the party describes as an existential threat to political pluralism.

For constitutional lawyers, however, the controversy raises far more profound questions.

Can a trial court revisit and nullify its own final judgment months after delivering it?

Does the constitutional right to fair hearing override the doctrine that litigation must eventually come to an end?

And perhaps most importantly, what happens when thousands of Nigerians have already acted in reliance on a subsisting judgment that is later set aside?

Those questions now lie at the heart of a legal battle whose consequences may stretch well beyond the fate of one political party.

More Than a Party Registration Dispute

Speaking at an emergency press conference in Abuja, National Chairman of the NDC, Senator Moses Cleopas Zuwoghe, rejected suggestions that the party had been deregistered.

According to him, the court merely set aside an earlier judgment compelling INEC to register the party but did not issue any consequential order directing the electoral commission to remove it from the register of political parties.

“The NDC has not been deregistered. There was no order to that effect. We have instructed our legal team to file an appeal immediately and we are confident that justice will prevail,” he said.

The distinction, although technical, could prove legally significant.

The party argues that until the Court of Appeal determines the matter, it remains a lawful political platform and will continue preparations for the 2027 elections.

Its leadership insists all congresses, conventions, candidate nominations and organisational structures established since registration remain valid unless an appellate court decides otherwise.

Whether that argument ultimately succeeds may now depend less on politics than on centuries-old principles of judicial procedure.

The Constitutional Crossroads

At the centre of the dispute lies one of the oldest doctrines in common law jurisprudence: functus officio.

The principle simply means that once a court has finally determined a matter, it has exhausted its jurisdiction over that dispute. Save for correcting clerical mistakes or accidental slips—or where a judgment is fundamentally void—the trial court cannot sit on appeal over its own decision.

That is precisely the argument now being advanced by the NDC.

According to Zuwoghe, once the Federal High Court delivered its judgment in December 2025 compelling INEC to register the party, any dissatisfied party ought to have approached the Court of Appeal.

Returning to the same trial judge to reverse his own final decision, he contends, violated one of the most settled principles of Nigerian jurisprudence.

The issue goes beyond procedural technicalities.

If appellate courts eventually agree with that position, the Lokoja ruling could become an important precedent reinforcing the finality of judicial decisions.

If they disagree, however, the boundaries of a trial court’s powers to revisit its own judgments may be substantially expanded.

Monday Ubani’s Constitutional Challenge

One of the most detailed legal criticisms of the Lokoja ruling came from a Senior Advocate of Nigeria, (SAN) Monday Ubani.

Writing shortly after the judgment, Ubani argued that although concerns about fair hearing deserve serious consideration, they do not automatically empower a trial court to reopen and reverse its own final judgment.

Relying on authorities including Adegoke Motors Ltd. v. Adesanya, Green v. Green, Peenok Investments Ltd. v. Hotel Presidential Ltd., and First Bank v. TSA Industries Ltd., the SAN drew a crucial distinction between an erroneous judgment and a null judgment.

According to him, even if the trial court made mistakes in its original decision, such errors ordinarily render a judgment appealable—not automatically void.

Ubani further questioned whether the alleged failure to join another political association as a party to the proceedings was sufficient to deprive the court of jurisdiction.

Nigerian courts have consistently held that non-joinder does not necessarily invalidate proceedings where the issues can be effectively determined between the parties already before the court.

If that principle applies here, he argued, the proper remedy would have been an appeal—not asking the same court to revisit its own final judgment.

Perhaps more significantly, Ubani warned that the practical consequences of the ruling extend beyond abstract legal principles.

By the time the judgment was set aside, the NDC had already acquired legal recognition, organised nationwide structures, conducted congresses, nominated candidates and attracted thousands of members who had relied on a subsisting court order.

Undoing all those steps, he suggested, risks undermining certainty within Nigeria’s electoral process.

The Procedural Puzzle

While much public attention has focused on functus officio, constitutional scholar and human rights lawyer, Prof. Chidi Odinkalu has raised a different procedural concern that may become equally significant before the Court of Appeal.

After reviewing the 18-page judgment, Odinkalu observed that the applicants sought two separate reliefs.

The first asked the court to extend the time within which they could apply to set aside the earlier judgment.

The second sought the substantive order setting aside that judgment.

In Odinkalu’s assessment, the second application depended entirely upon the first.

Yet, he questioned whether the court properly determined the request for extension of time before proceeding to grant the substantive relief.

“I am wondering: without considering that underlying first application for extension of time, to whom did the court grant the order on the second prayer?” he wrote on X.

His observation introduces an additional procedural layer that differs from the arguments advanced by the NDC and Monday Ubani.

Rather than focusing on whether the court had exhausted its jurisdiction, Odinkalu questions whether the substantive application was procedurally competent before the court at all.

It is an issue appellate judges may now be called upon to examine.

In a characteristically sardonic aside, Odinkalu remarked that the first four letters of Justice Dashen’s surname appeared to mirror the speed with which the court disposed of the substantive application—a rhetorical flourish that has attracted considerable attention online but also underscores his broader concern that procedural safeguards may have been overlooked.

Democracy’s Expanding Fault Lines

Beyond legal doctrine lies an equally important constitutional value: political participation.

Section 40 of the 1999 Constitution guarantees every Nigerian the right to assemble freely and associate with others for the protection of their interests, including the formation of political parties subject to constitutional and statutory requirements.

Although INEC retains constitutional authority to regulate political party registration within the framework established by law, that regulatory power exists alongside constitutional guarantees designed to preserve political pluralism.

The present dispute therefore raises a broader question.

How should courts balance procedural fairness against democratic inclusiveness?

Can constitutional democracy flourish if emerging political platforms remain uncertain whether judicial victories can later be revisited after substantial reliance has been placed upon them?

Those questions increasingly dominate discussions among constitutional lawyers.

Why Opposition Figures Are Alarmed

The NDC has portrayed the judgment as part of a broader attempt to narrow Nigeria’s democratic space ahead of the 2027 elections.

Without naming specific political actors, party leaders alleged that efforts are being made to weaken emerging opposition platforms through litigation rather than electoral competition.

The controversy quickly attracted reactions from opposition politicians and civil society.

Peter Obi described the judgment as another troubling development for Nigeria’s democratic institutions.

According to the former Anambra State governor, the implications extend beyond partisan politics and should concern every Nigerian committed to constitutional democracy.

He warned that confidence in both the judiciary and legislature could be eroded if public institutions are increasingly perceived as serving partisan interests rather than constitutional principles.

Obi also reiterated that his position has consistently been guided by principle rather than political convenience, recalling that he had similarly criticised actions affecting other opposition platforms.

“My concern is not about who becomes President,” he said.

“My concern is that Nigeria works.”

Democracy activist Aisha Yesufu likewise argued that the dispute represents a defining moment for judicial independence.

She urged the judiciary to demonstrate that it remains insulated from political pressures while encouraging members of the NDC to remain focused on grassroots mobilisation instead of allowing the litigation to distract them.

Peter Ahmeh, leader of the Peter for Nigeria Movement, framed the controversy as one concerning electoral choice itself.

According to him, democracy loses legitimacy when voters are denied meaningful alternatives at the ballot box.

A Case That Could Shape 2027

The timing of the dispute has intensified its political significance.

Opposition parties are actively exploring mergers, coalitions and strategic realignments ahead of the next general election.

Against that backdrop, uncertainty surrounding the legal status of a political party inevitably assumes wider implications.

If the Court of Appeal ultimately restores the earlier judgment, the decision could reinforce judicial certainty and strengthen confidence among emerging political movements.

If, however, the Lokoja ruling is affirmed, lawyers say political organisations may become considerably more cautious about investing time and resources in structures built upon trial court judgments that remain vulnerable to later reversal.

For aspirants already nominated under the NDC platform, the stakes are particularly high.

Questions may eventually arise concerning candidate eligibility, nomination timelines and compliance with electoral regulations should the litigation extend closer to election season.

While many of those issues remain hypothetical, they illustrate why the dispute has attracted national attention.

The Larger Constitutional Test

Legal history often shows that seemingly narrow disputes evolve into landmark constitutional precedents.

This case appears increasingly capable of joining that category.

The Court of Appeal will likely be asked to reconcile several competing constitutional values:

  • the right to fair hearing;
  • the doctrine of functus officio;
  • the finality of judicial decisions;
  • freedom of political association;
  • democratic certainty;
  • electoral stability; and
  • public confidence in the administration of justice.

None of those principles is inherently superior to another. The challenge lies in striking a balance that protects procedural fairness without creating uncertainty capable of destabilising democratic participation. That balancing exercise may ultimately prove more significant than the fate of the NDC itself.

What Happens Next?

The NDC has already instructed its legal team to challenge the Lokoja judgment before the Court of Appeal, insisting it remains a lawful political platform pending the outcome of that appeal.

The appellate court will now have an opportunity not only to determine the immediate dispute but also to clarify important questions surrounding the powers of trial courts, the limits of judicial review and the stability of Nigeria’s electoral jurisprudence.

Whatever the outcome, one reality is already becoming apparent. This is no longer simply a disagreement over the registration of one political party. It has evolved into a constitutional contest over the integrity of judicial process, the certainty of court judgments and the resilience of Nigeria’s multiparty democracy.

As the country inches closer to the 2027 elections, the appellate courts may ultimately decide much more than the legal fate of the NDC.

They may also define how secure judicial victories truly are in Nigeria’s constitutional democracy—and whether political actors and ordinary citizens alike can confidently rely on the finality of the courts that pronounce them.

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