Kingsley Jesuorobo

Mixed reactions have trailed the interim suspension imposed by the Legal Practitioners’ Privileges Committee (LPPC) on Chief Mike Ozekhome, SAN.

In my respectful view, the hand of those who have questioned the decision is strengthened when the issue is viewed against the antecedents of disciplinary regulation within the Nigerian legal profession. The issue is not whether Chief Mike Ozekhome, SAN, should ultimately be exonerated or sanctioned—that is a matter for the appropriate disciplinary process.

Rather, the real concern is whether the LPPC has applied a consistent and principled standard in resorting to the exceptional measure of an interim suspension before the disciplinary process has run its course.

The profession’s recent history raises legitimate questions about consistency.

The legal profession has witnessed previous controversies involving senior members of the Bar, including office holders within its own regulatory architecture.

During the 2022 Saipem controversy, serious allegations connected with the law firm of Chief Wole Olanipekun, SAN, then Chairman of the Body of Benchers, generated widespread public concern. Two successive Presidents of the Nigerian Bar Association publicly called upon him to recuse himself from presiding over the Body of Benchers while the disciplinary process was pending. Yet there was no immediate suspension of his rank as a Senior Advocate of Nigeria or any comparable interim disciplinary measure. Instead, the disciplinary machinery was permitted to determine whether there was sufficient evidence implicating him personally.

The Legal Practitioners Disciplinary Committee (LPDC) ultimately declined to proceed against him personally for want of evidence linking him to the impugned conduct, although disciplinary sanctions were later imposed on the partner directly responsible.

Similarly, Chief Mike Ozekhome, SAN, has himself previously been the subject of serious regulatory action. The EFCC froze his professional fees in a widely publicised matter, yet the Court of Appeal ultimately vindicated his position, holding that the seizure of his professional fees was unlawful. That history serves as a caution against equating allegations, however serious or publicly sensational, with established professional misconduct.

The present London property litigation undoubtedly contains grave judicial findings. However, the gravity of those findings does not answer the anterior question: why has the LPPC considered it appropriate to impose an interim suspension before the disciplinary process has reached its conclusion when previous controversies involving equally prominent members of the profession did not attract comparable treatment?

Whether one agrees with the outcomes in any of these cases is beside the point.

The rule of law demands consistency in administrative decision-making. Like cases should be treated alike unless a rational and publicly articulated basis exists for distinguishing them. If interim suspension is now to become the governing standard whenever allegations of sufficient gravity arise, the LPPC ought to articulate that standard with clarity and demonstrate that it is being applied uniformly rather than selectively.

Otherwise, the measure risks creating the appearance—not necessarily the reality—of unequal treatment, thereby undermining confidence in the fairness, predictability, and institutional integrity of the disciplinary process.

The decision also gives rise to a deeper conceptual difficulty.

Chief Ozekhome, SAN, has not been suspended from legal practice. He remains entitled to practise as a legal practitioner, to appear before the courts, advise clients, and discharge all the professional obligations imposed upon every member of the Nigerian Bar. The only deprivation is his entitlement to practise as a member of the Inner Bar.

That distinction itself invites a fundamental question. If the allegations are considered sufficiently grave to justify an extraordinary interim suspension from the rank of Senior Advocate of Nigeria before the disciplinary process has been concluded, why are they not considered sufficiently grave to warrant an interim suspension from legal practice altogether? Conversely, if the allegations have not yet been judicially or disciplinarily established to the extent necessary to justify depriving him of his licence to practise law, what principled basis justifies the premature withdrawal of the professional distinction attached to the rank of SAN?

The point is not that the LPPC lacks authority over the rank of Senior Advocate. It plainly possesses that authority. Rather, the question is whether the exercise of that authority in advance of a final disciplinary determination produces a coherent regulatory outcome.

The decision appears to create a two-tier conception of professional character: one standard for members of the Inner Bar and another for every other legal practitioner. Yet the Legal Practitioners Act and the Rules of Professional Conduct impose the same fundamental ethical obligations upon every lawyer, irrespective of rank. Honesty, integrity, fidelity to the court, and good character are not elevated duties owed only by Senior Advocates; they are universal obligations binding upon every member of the profession.

If character is indeed indivisible, then its regulatory assessment ought also to be coherent. Either the allegations justify restrictions on the right to practise because they disclose a present risk to the administration of justice, or they await determination through the ordinary disciplinary process before any punitive consequence is imposed. To conclude that a lawyer possesses sufficient character to continue practising before every court in Nigeria while simultaneously determining that he lacks sufficient character to retain the honour of the Inner Bar before those same allegations have been finally adjudicated is a position that requires far more careful justification than the LPPC has thus far provided.

That tension further reinforces the criticism that the interim suspension is not merely severe but premature. It risks transforming what is intended to be a protective administrative measure into an anticipatory sanction, imposed before the disciplinary process has reached the stage at which findings of professional misconduct have been properly made.

The issue, therefore, transcends Chief Mike Ozekhome.

Every lawyer, whether a member of the Inner Bar or the Outer Bar, has a vested interest in a disciplinary regime that is principled, predictable and consistently applied. Confidence in professional regulation is not built by the severity of sanctions but by the certainty that like cases will be treated alike and that extraordinary measures will be exercised only in accordance with clearly articulated standards.

If the LPPC’s decision marks the beginning of a new regulatory philosophy, then the profession deserves to know that this philosophy will be applied uniformly, irrespective of personality, influence or public sentiment. If, however, no such principled distinction can be articulated, then the criticism is not merely about Chief Ozekhome; it is about preserving the coherence, legitimacy and moral authority of the disciplinary system itself.

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

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For Christians everywhere: “Give us this day our daily bread” is a humble plea for sustenance, a recognition that humans need food, shelter, and the basic conditions of life to thrive. But in the heat of the recent governorship election in Ekiti State, that sacred phrase acquired a bitter political meaning.

A viral video, circulated just before the poll, showed items being thrown from a campaign vehicle to people gathered by the roadside. Many viewers believed the items were loaves of bread. Others insisted they were campaign materials. The exact content of the items may be disputed, but the public outrage was not really about the object itself. It was about the image; the optics of citizens being treated as though their loyalty could be bought with whatever could be tossed from a moving vehicle.

That scene offended the conscience of many Nigerians because it captured, in one humiliating moment, the poverty of our political culture. Whether the items were bread, rice, souvenirs, or some other giveaway, the message was the same: voters are expected to be impressed by handouts rather than persuaded by ideas. Citizens are expected to respond to crumbs instead of demanding competence, accountability, and vision. That is not democracy. That is patronage dressed up as politics.

In a healthy democracy, the voter is not a beggar or a recipient of politicians’ charity. Rather, the voter is sovereign, and owner of the mandate politicians seek. Yet in Nigeria, election season too often turns this relationship upside down. Politicians behave like benefactors.

Here Comes The Season of Vote Buying

The Ekiti election also revived the familiar and troubling allegations of vote-buying. Across the state, reports and counter-reports emerged. Opposition voices alleged inducement, manipulation, and the use of material incentives to sway voters. Some candidates and political actors openly expressed concern that the exchange of money and gifts for votes had compromised the process.

These allegations are not new but part of a long and shameful pattern in our electoral life. Vote-buying has become one of the most persistent threats to Nigeria’s democracy. It has evolved over time. In one election, it may be cash in envelopes. In another, it may be food items, transport fare, wrappers, household goods, or other inducements. The packaging changes, but the intention remains the same: to convert poverty into political advantage.

This is why vote-buying is so dangerous. It feeds on desperation, exploits hunger and weaponises hardship. For many citizens who are struggling to survive, the immediate certainty of a small gift can appear more real than the distant promise of good governance. A politician who understands this reality can manipulate it with ease. But while poverty may explain why vote-buying works, it does not excuse it.

The deeper tragedy is that the same poverty that makes voters vulnerable is often the product of years of failed governance. When people lack decent jobs, reliable electricity, quality schools, accessible healthcare, and social protection, they become easier to manipulate during elections. Hunger becomes a campaign strategy. Desperation becomes an electoral tool. The failures of governance are then recycled into the machinery of political control.

That is why the Ekiti episode should trouble every serious Nigerian because it is about a national disease that keeps reproducing itself. We have normalised the abnormal. We have allowed inducement to become part of the electoral vocabulary.

Stomach Infrastructure and Allied Matters

What made the viral video especially offensive was not only the suspicion of vote-buying; it was the humiliation.

There is something profoundly insulting about reducing citizens to the level of people who must be fed, tossed, or bribed before they can exercise their civic duty. It suggests that the political class sees the electorate not as partners in nation-building, but as a mass of stomachs to be managed. It is a contemptuous view of the people, and it is one of the reasons our democracy remains fragile.

The irony is painful. In the weeks and months before elections, politicians speak the language of service, development, and transformation. They promise roads, schools, hospitals, jobs, and security. But when the campaign becomes serious, many of them abandon persuasion and resort to inducement. Instead of explaining how they will govern, they distribute cash. Instead of presenting policy, they hand out food. Instead of respecting the intelligence of the voter, they appeal to immediate need.

A citizen who is treated with dignity is more likely to think critically about the future. A citizen who is treated as a beggar is more likely to vote out of survival. That is why the politics of handouts is so destructive. It weakens the link between public office and public trust. It turns elections into transactions and teaches politicians that the cheapest way to win is to buy the poor, not serve them.

And once public office is won through inducement, accountability becomes weaker. Leaders who spend heavily to capture power often feel compelled to recover their investment. Corruption follows. Public resources are diverted. Contracts are inflated. Development stalls. Poverty deepens. Then, at the next election, the cycle begins again. This is the vicious circle that has trapped our politics for too long.

Ekiti, to its credit, has often been regarded as one of the more politically conscious states in the country. It has an educated population and a history of intense electoral engagement. Yet even there, the allegations of vote-buying and the viral symbolism of roadside giveaways show how deeply the culture of inducement has penetrated our democratic life. If it can happen in a state known for political awareness, then no part of the country is immune.

Restoring Dignity to Democracy

The real lesson from Ekiti is that Nigeria must decide what kind of democracy it wants to build: democracy of dignity or breadcrumbs? Bread may silence hunger for a moment, but dignity for a lifetime is what democracy should promise.

To move forward, we must begin by insisting that voters are not commodities. Their votes are not for sale. Their dignity is not negotiable. Political parties must be held to higher standards. Electoral offences must be investigated and punished, regardless of who commits them. Civil society, the media, religious institutions, and traditional leaders all have a role to play in educating citizens and exposing the corrosive effects of vote-buying.

But beyond enforcement, we must also address the conditions that make inducement effective in the first place. Poverty is the oxygen of vote-buying. When people are hungry, unemployed, and abandoned by the state, they become vulnerable to manipulation. That means the fight against electoral corruption cannot be separated from the fight against economic injustice.

We need jobs that give people independence, schools that expand opportunity, hospitals that treat the sick, infrastructure that supports enterprise, and a social order in which citizens are not forced to choose between their conscience and their next meal.

That is the real meaning of “daily bread.” It is not the bread thrown from a campaign truck. It is the bread earned through a functioning economy and a just society, from work, dignity, and fair opportunity. It is the bread that allows citizens to stand upright, not crouch before politicians.
Nigerians deserve more than handouts. They deserve leaders who understand that public office is a trust, not a trophy and a democracy in which the voter is honoured, not humiliated.

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

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By Richard Odusanya

From my personal observation and experience, darkness can never extinguish light; rather, even the faintest ray of light dispels the deepest darkness. Likewise, truth ultimately triumphs because falsehood cannot alter objective reality. Just as darkness is merely the absence of light, falsehood is simply the absence of truth.

This philosophical conviction provides an appropriate introduction to the life and public journey of Omoyele Sowore—a fearless activist whose name has become synonymous with uncompromising advocacy for good governance, structural reform, and democratic accountability in Nigeria.

As founder of Sahara Reporters, established in New York, Sowore has devoted much of his adult life to exposing corruption, confronting abuse of power, and championing the ideals of justice, press freedom, and responsible governance. In doing so, he sacrificed academic ambitions, career opportunities, family comfort, and, repeatedly, his personal liberty in pursuit of what he believes is a better Nigeria.

His reputation as a radical democrat was further cemented through the #RevolutionNow movement, which sought to awaken citizens—particularly young Nigerians—to demand a fundamental restructuring of governance and public accountability. Rather than remaining solely an activist, he also chose to engage the democratic process directly by contesting the Nigerian presidency under the African Action Congress (AAC) in both the 2019 and 2023 elections. His campaigns consistently focused on youth empowerment, anti-corruption, institutional reforms, and national restructuring.

Such unwavering commitment has come at enormous personal cost. From his days as a student union activist at the University of Lagos to his subsequent arrests, prolonged detentions, prosecutions, and legal battles, Sowore has repeatedly confronted the coercive powers of the Nigerian state. Yet, despite these ordeals, he remains one of the country’s most resilient symbols of resistance.

Unsurprisingly, Sowore evokes sharply divided opinions. Admirers regard him as an incorruptible patriot and a catalyst for a revolution of values capable of transforming Nigeria’s political culture. Critics, on the other hand, view his style of activism as unnecessarily confrontational and politically abrasive. Such polarization is hardly unusual in history, as many reformers who challenged entrenched systems were initially resisted before their ideas received broader consideration.

History equally teaches that revolutions are rarely the product of one individual. They emerge when prolonged economic hardship, widening inequality, political exclusion, institutional corruption, and the spread of transformative ideas converge to produce a collective demand for change. 

The Philippine Revolution of 1896, for instance, was triggered by the discovery of the Katipunan, yet it was fundamentally the culmination of decades of growing national consciousness and accumulated grievances. Major historical transformations are therefore seldom spontaneous; they arise from long-standing structural tensions.

However, while historical parallels may provide useful insights, Nigeria’s greatest challenge lies elsewhere. Too often, our national discourse is dominated by comparisons with Western democracies or other foreign political systems. Such comparisons, though intellectually attractive, frequently ignore Nigeria’s unique historical evolution, cultural diversity, and social realities.

In my considered opinion, meaningful and sustainable national progress will remain elusive until Nigerians accept that our solutions must emerge principally from our own realities rather than from inherited colonial templates or borrowed institutional models. 

The lingering tendency to measure ourselves against foreign political systems reflects a subtle continuation of colonial and neo-colonial thinking.

The current debates surrounding governance in Britain and the United States—including disagreements over foreign policy, party leadership, and institutional accountability—illustrate that every nation confronts its own peculiar political contradictions. Rather than imitating external systems wholesale, Nigeria should focus on understanding its own peculiarities and designing institutions capable of addressing them effectively.

As an engineer would readily appreciate, every successful system is built upon correct assumptions and appropriate boundary conditions. Once these foundational assumptions are flawed, the resulting system will inevitably malfunction. In engineering terms, filling a diesel engine with petrol guarantees failure regardless of the quality of the vehicle itself. Nigeria’s political experience often resembles such a system—institutions transplanted without sufficient adaptation to our unique national realities.

The deeper crisis confronting Nigeria is therefore not merely constitutional or political; it is fundamentally one of values, orientation, civic education, and national consciousness. A significant proportion of our population has been shaped by historical grievances, distorted political expectations, and conflicting social narratives.  Unsurprisingly, governments at every level often become reflections of these underlying societal conditions.

Our intellectuals, professionals, and policymakers should therefore devote less energy to debating which foreign political model Nigeria ought to copy and considerably more effort towards designing governance structures rooted in our own history, cultures, aspirations, and developmental needs. As the Yoruba wisely observe:

“Ọmọ ewurẹ yàtọ̀ sí ọmọ ajá; bẹ́ẹ̀ ni ọmọ ajá yàtọ̀ sí ọmọ ẹkùn.”

Every creature possesses its own unique nature; consequently, every society requires institutions designed for its own peculiar circumstances.

Against this backdrop, the Federal Government equally bears a significant responsibility. 

To fully realise the aspirations of the Renewed Hope Agenda, governance must evolve beyond abstract macroeconomic theories into a model that is locally responsive, socially compassionate, and people-centred. Policies must increasingly reflect the daily realities of ordinary Nigerians and bridge the widening gulf between political leadership and the citizens they govern.

Ultimately, Nigeria’s future will not be secured merely through changing governments or replacing political actors. What is urgently required is a genuine revolution of values—one founded upon integrity, justice, accountability, competence, patriotism, and national purpose.

Whether one agrees with Omoyele Sowore’s methods or not, his lifelong advocacy compels Nigerians to confront difficult but necessary questions about governance, justice, citizenship, and the moral foundations of the state. Those questions deserve serious national reflection.

The destiny of Nigeria will ultimately be determined not by personalities but by our collective willingness to build institutions that reflect our realities, inspire public confidence, uphold justice, and serve the common good. Only then can we lay the foundations for a stable, prosperous, and truly democratic nation.

  MY HUMBLE SUBMISSION.

CITIZEN RICHARD ODUSANYA

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

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By Kachi Okezie, Esq.

The Thomas Partey case has done more than put a Ghanaian footballer in the dock. It has also put British society right there, alongside him. Not for the crimes he is accused of, the five counts of rape and one of sexual assault, which are now before the Crown Court and must be tested by evidence. But for the casual way much of the public has already convicted him. From social media pile-ons to the now-viral snub by Djed Spence when Partey offered the FIFA-mandated handshake, we are watching a country that wrote the rulebook on fair trials forget the first page.

Only Spence can explain why he refused the handshake. Until he does, speculation is pointless and unfair. But the wider reaction demands comment. Thousands of fans, pundits, and casual commentators have treated the charge sheet as a conviction. They have called for bans, booing, and exclusion. They have decided guilt based on accusation. That isn’t passion. That is ignorance. And it is ignorance of the most basic principle English law exists to protect.

So what is the settled law on presumption of innocence, in clear and simple terms? It is this: Every person accused of a crime is innocent until the prosecution proves guilt beyond reasonable doubt in a court of law. Not after arrest. Not after being charged. Not after the BBC names you. After a jury or magistrates deliver a verdict of guilty. Until that moment, the accused is legally innocent. Full stop.

This isn’t custom. It isn’t courtesy. It’s statute, case law, common law, and human rights law combined. Article 6(2) of the European Convention on Human Rights, incorporated into UK law by the Human Rights Act 1998, says: “Everyone charged with a criminal offence shall be presumed innocent until proved guilty according to law.” Our courts have repeated it for centuries. In Woolmington v DPP, Viscount Sankey called it the “golden thread” running through English criminal law: the prosecution must prove the case; the defendant does not prove innocence. More recently, R v DPP, ex parte Kebilene reaffirmed that the presumption is fundamental and can only be displaced by clear statutory language, which is rare.[1935][1999]

Does that rule bind state authorities, public officials, and the media?
Yes. Absolutely. Public authorities must not make statements or take actions that prejudice a defendant’s right to a fair trial. The Contempt of Court Act 1981 makes it a criminal offence to publish anything that creates a “substantial risk” of serious prejudice to active proceedings. Police and prosecutors are trained not to imply guilt. The College of Policing’s Media Relations guidance says suspects should not be named before charge unless there is a clear policing purpose, precisely to avoid stigmatising the innocent. The courts have repeatedly warned ministers and MPs that commentary suggesting guilt risks collapse of trials.

Does it include how suspects are presented to the public?
Yes. The presumption of innocence covers presentation as well as words. That’s why police generally stopped “perp walks” in the UK. It’s why defendants sit in the dock without shackles unless there’s a specific security risk. In Allenet de Ribemont v France, the European Court of Human Rights found that a senior police officer violated Article 6(2) by declaring a suspect guilty at a press conference. The principle is simple: the state cannot brand you a criminal before it proves you are one. The media, while free to report, must avoid commentary that assumes guilt once proceedings are active. Calling an accused person a “rapist” before conviction isn’t reporting. It’s prejudice, and it can amount to contempt.[1995]

Which brings us back to Partey, Spence, and the crowd. An accusation is not a verdict. A charge is a question put to a court, not an answer. FIFA’s pre-match handshake is a ritual of respect between competitors. It needs to decide what the rule should be. If it’s to be optional, then make it optional. But if it’s to be mandatory, then it must be enforced. But what we cannot have is a system where a player is publicly shunned by peers because of charges, then pretend we still believe in fair trials. Spence may have personal reasons totally unrelated to the case. He may not. But the glee with which many fans treated the snub as “justice” shows how thin the public’s grasp of due process has become.

This is the bugbear: a vast swath of English commentary now treats the presumption of innocence as a mere technicality for lawyers, not a rule for citizens. That is dangerous. The principle exists because history taught us the cost of getting it wrong. Sir William Blackstone, the most influential English jurist, put it in words every schoolchild should know: “It is better that ten guilty persons escape than that one innocent suffer.” In modern terms, better that 1000 guilty go free than one innocent goes down. Why? Because once the state can punish on accusation, no one is safe. You don’t have to like Partey. You don’t have to believe him. You just have to accept that his guilt must be proved in court, not on X.

Yet surveys keep telling us the public doesn’t. The 2023 Legal Services Board study found only 43% of UK adults could correctly identify basic legal rights. Half couldn’t name the presumption of innocence. A 2019 YouGov poll found 61% thought “being arrested means you’ve likely done it”. This is a civic literacy crisis. We teach kids trigonometry but not the one legal rule that stands between them and a mob. The result is visible every time a high-profile case trends. Trial by timeline replaces trial by jury.

The law is clear, but the culture is not. State authorities are prohibited from treating Partey as guilty. Public officials cannot prejudice his trial. The media cannot mount a campaign that assumes conviction. And the public? We aren’t in court, so we can have opinions. But a free society depends on citizens who know the difference between opinion and verdict, between allegation and proof. Right now, too many don’t.

Thomas Partey may be convicted. He may be acquitted. The court will decide. But until then, he is innocent. That isn’t activism. That isn’t “defending” him. That is English law. If Britain no longer remembers that, then the real offence isn’t on the charge sheet. It’s in our schools, our discourse, and our failure to teach the one rule that keeps power honest.

Innocent until proven guilty isn’t a favour we grant to popular people. It’s a shield we all live under. Break it for him, and you’ve already broken it for yourself.

Kachi Okezie, Esq, LL.B BL MBA (Wales)

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

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Yesterday’s passage of the historic State Police Bill marks a significant turning point in Nigeria’s constitutional and security history. With the passage of the Bill by the Senate, following its earlier passage by the House of Representatives, Nigeria has taken a bold and historic step toward restructuring its internal security architecture in a manner more consistent with the principles of federalism.

For many years, I have consistently advocated for the establishment of State Police as an indispensable component of a truly federal system of government. At a time when the proposal was viewed with skepticism and apprehension in some quarters, I maintained that the centralized policing structure inherited from a unitary mindset could not effectively address the peculiar security challenges confronting a vast and diverse federation such as Nigeria.

Yesterday, that advocacy has found legislative expression. The passage of the State Police Bill represents a major milestone in Nigeria’s quest to create a more responsive, efficient, and community-oriented security framework. It is a recognition of the reality that security challenges are often local in nature and require local solutions driven by those who understand the language, culture, terrain, and dynamics of the communities affected.

The growing wave of insecurity across the country have manifested in terrorism, banditry, kidnapping, communal violence, farmer-herder conflicts, armed robbery, and other forms of criminality. These have exposed the limitations of an over-centralized policing system. For decades, security experts, constitutional scholars, traditional rulers, civil society groups, and concerned citizens have argued that effective policing must be brought closer to the people.

The National Assembly has now responded to that call.
The significance of this development cannot be overstated. It is not merely a security reform. It is a constitutional acknowledgment that the challenges of modern governance require a rethinking of old structures that have become increasingly incapable of meeting contemporary realities.

However, while the passage of the bill deserves commendation, it would be premature to conclude that the concerns surrounding State Police have been completely addressed.
One of the major fears expressed over the years has been the possibility of abuse by State Governors.

Critics have consistently warned that State Police could be transformed into instruments of political intimidation, electoral manipulation, suppression of dissent, and harassment of opposition figures.

These concerns were neither imaginary nor unfounded, given our political experience as a nation.
It is therefore reassuring that the legislative process reportedly incorporated certain safeguards aimed at preventing abuse and ensuring accountability. Civil society organisations, professional bodies, and constitutional advocates had consistently called for institutional checks and balances to prevent the emergence of what some described as “Governor-controlled police forces.”

Whether the safeguards contained in the bill are sufficient to achieve that objective remains an issue that can only be tested by experience and implementation. The true measure of the reform will not lie in the text of the law alone but in the strength of the institutions established to enforce it.

For State Police to succeed, recruitment, promotion, discipline, and operational control must be insulated from partisan political interference. Oversight mechanisms must remain independent and effective and human rights protections must be rigorously enforced.

Most importantly, the judiciary must remain vigilant and prepared to intervene whenever constitutional boundaries are threatened by government officers.
Yet beyond these concerns lies an even more fundamental issue that has not received the attention it deserves. And that is that State Police cannot fully achieve its objectives in the absence of functional local government administration.
This point cannot be overemphasized.
Security is most effective when it is rooted in the community. Intelligence gathering, crime prevention, dispute resolution, and early warning systems all begin at the grassroots. The local government is constitutionally designed to be the closest tier of government to the people and should ordinarily serve as the foundation upon which community security structures are built.

Unfortunately, the reality in many parts of Nigeria is that local governments have become weak institutions with limited autonomy, inadequate resources, and diminished capacity to perform their constitutional responsibilities. In some cases, they exist largely as administrative extensions of state governments rather than independent centres of grassroots governance.
This reality raises an important question and that is whether State Policing system can truly succeed if the local government system remains dysfunctional?

My answer is that it would be extremely difficult.
The mere transfer of policing powers from the Federal Government to State Governments does not automatically translate into effective grassroots security. Without strong local institutions capable of facilitating community engagement and intelligence gathering, the security architecture will still suffer from a disconnect between law enforcement agencies and the people they are expected to protect.

A truly effective federal security structure should mirror Nigeria’s three-tier system of government. The Federal Government should continue to handle national security, terrorism, border protection, and inter-state crimes while State Governments should coordinate state-level policing and law enforcement. On the other hand, Local Governments should serve as the grassroots hubs for community policing, local intelligence, conflict prevention, and citizen participation.
Anything short of this integrated approach may produce a State Police system that is operationally active but strategically incomplete.

As Nigeria moves closer to implementing this historic reform, policymakers must therefore look beyond the constitutional amendment itself and focus on the broader institutional ecosystem necessary for its success. These include strengthening local government autonomy, empowering community security structures, promoting transparency, ensuring professional recruitment standards, and guaranteeing effective oversight mechanisms.

The passage of the State Police Bill is undoubtedly a landmark achievement. It reflects the willingness of the present 10th National Assembly to confront one of the most pressing challenges facing the nation and to embrace reforms that many considered inevitable.

However, history teaches us that the success of any constitutional reform is determined not by its enactment but by its implementation.
The task before Nigeria is therefore not merely to celebrate the birth of State Police, but to ensure that it evolves into a professional, accountable, community-driven institution capable of enhancing security without undermining democratic freedoms.

As one who has long advocated for this reform, I welcome this historic milestone. Yet I also recognize that the journey has only just begun. The real work now lies in building the institutions, safeguards, and grassroots structures that will transform State Police from a constitutional provision into a genuine instrument of peace, security, and national development.

If we get it right, which is a prayer point for me, future generations may look back on this moment as the beginning of a new era in Nigeria’s security governance. If we get it wrong, we may merely have decentralized existing problems without solving them.
The choice, and the responsibility, now belong to all of us.

Dr M.O. Ubani SAN
Legal Practitioner/ Policy Analyst.

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

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