Open Petition

By M.O. Idam

When the tool of justice gets infected with corrupt practices, corruption itself becomes a lifestyle of the nation—this is the case of the Magistrate Courts administration of the Federal Capital Territory (FCT).

Aware that the Constitution of the Federal Republic of Nigeria, for very unpopular reasons, does not recognise magistrates as judicial officers. However, it is not in dispute that magistrates are retained as the cradle for justice administration in Nigeria but without the equivalence of the benefits and privileges given to judicial officers.

Without attempting to speak about magistrates’ recruitment procedure in the FCT which has raced far away from transparency, I am concerned about the selective or despotic style of allocation of official rights, benefits and entitlements.

Strangely, employment benefits and other official privileges of magistrates in the FCT, such as official vehicles and housing have become not only a political subject within the system, it is selectively allocated based on interest, affinity or even consanguinity between the authorities and the magistrates, leaving those outside this ‘criteria’ as orphans–in–public–service to their fate.

What would have been the moral answer to why official vehicles and accommodation would be freely given to certain magistrates and none of the two classes of official benefits are received by certain others, despite being in the same employment cadre?

As a lawyer, I have seen magistrates of over five years post-employment in the FCT take taxicabs to and from the court, or stand stranded by the roadside on different occasions waiting for taxi while their colleagues, who are sometimes younger in employment, drive in official vehicles and if you investigate, they may also live in official accommodation. Efforts to find answers to this, have unravelled nothing but the fact that the disbursement of these benefits are based on preferential considrations.The criteria for promotion or elevation of a magistrate in the FCT is entirely another kettle of fish.

Today, magistrates without traceable or trackable surnames or connections to the powers, in Nigeria, dream not of elevation or promotion, regardless of how brilliant or industrious they may be; they leave it to fate. Their official benefits are exclusively determined by the mood of the Chief Judge. Unfortunately, this system favours mediocrity against diligence and patriotism.

The bane of my alarm this morning is not the above stated effect of this practice. but the hazard associated with the nepotistic administration of official benefits and entitlements to FCT magistrates which not only exposes the less privileged magistrates to corruption but poses grave danger to their lives.

The truth is, a magistrates left to jump commercial vehicles to and from the court are, among others, most likely to bump into litigants over whose pending cases the magistrates would be expected to exercise their discretion, one way or the other. They are also likely to be harmed by a disgruntled or malicious litigant or their relatives who would have taken advantage of their unfortunate circumstance to cause them harm.

Scornful is the fact that Magistrates in FCT earn less than N250,000.00 as a monthly salary, and they are expected to preside over both civil and criminal cases, including those that are worth millions of Naira in human interests in them, without an element of compromise.

I doubt the quality of justice that can be produced by a hungry justice system.

While I seek a review of the monthly salary of the FCT magistrates, I call on the National Assembly to carry out a holistic investigation on the method, procedure and criteria for the allocation of official vehicles and housing accommodations to magistrates in the FCT.

M.O. IDAM

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

Press Release

As Nigeria charts its uncertain but hopeful course through deepening democratic engagement, the leadership of its federating units plays an increasingly vital role. For the South-East, a region marked by resilience, innovation, and immense human capital, the expectations are even higher. Sadly, a critical examination of the current performance of state governors in this geo-political zone reveals uneven delivery, especially in areas of security, economic cohesion, and long-term strategic vision.

The performance of South-East governors in Nigeria’s democratic landscape presents a mixed bag of commendable strides and glaring shortcomings. While some have demonstrated visionary leadership and embraced their mandates with notable fervour others have struggled to meet the expectations of their constituents, particularly in the critical area of security. The visible infrastructural strides in Abia under Gov. Alex Otti and the digital surveillance initiative introduced in Enugu by Gov. Peter Mbah are commendable and worthy of emulation.

However, good governance is not episodic. It must be holistic, sustained, and responsive to the pressing challenges of the people. Governors who shy away from firm security strategies, responsive infrastructure renewal, and inclusive policy consultations are failing a region that has given so much to this country. This is not just disappointing, it is dangerous.

Most importantly regarding security is that silence is no longer an option as insecurity is no longer a creeping threat in the South-East, it is an active, mutating crisis. States such as Imo and Anambra have borne the brunt of a volatile mix of secessionist agitation, criminal opportunism, and state response that often lacks both intelligence and community engagement. The recent coordinated attacks in Imo State in May 2025, which claimed the lives of several civilians and security personnel, lay bare the consequences of reactive rather than proactive governance. It is unconscionable that some Governors still treat security as a “federal problem” while communities are pillaged and youth are radicalized. We demand better!

South-East governors must reactivate a joint security and development forum focused on intelligence-sharing, border management, and early conflict detection through surveillance technology and ultimately, implementing the Owerri Security and Economic Summit blueprint, which remains largely unexecuted. There is also the need for a unified front in the National Assembly to move the needle on constitutional reform to allow for state police. The escalating insecurity across Nigeria has exposed the limitations of our unitary policing framework. Nowhere is this more visible than in the South-East where non-state actors often outmanoeuvre overstretched federal forces.

The current exclusive control of policing by the federal government is both administratively rigid and practically unsustainable. Section 214 of the 1999 Constitution bars state legislatures from enacting laws for state-based law enforcement, a clause now wholly out of step with Nigeria’s security realities. State police is not a call for fragmentation, a restructured security architecture is not merely a policy shift, it is a matter of survival.

We urge South-East governors to understand that performance ratings in a democracy are earned not by titles or political alignment but by tangible, measurable impact in the lives of citizens.

We commend those who have made bold moves in governance and urge the rest to abandon inertia for innovation. A secure, united and prosperous South-East is not only possible, it is overdue.

History is watching and posterity is not easily misled.

Sir. Chidi Udekwe, ESQ
PRESIDENT
Otu Oka-Iwu, Abuja

By Lasisi Olagunju

A tree does not fall in the forest and kill someone at home. That proverb may be true one hundred years ago. It has expired; its truth is lost to the ravages of this century’s technology. Check what Iran and Israel are sending to each other from a billion kilometres apart. They are pressing buttons, bursting bunkers and cracking skulls. They are felling trees to kill the enemy at home.

Between Iran and Israel is a land distance of 2,308 kilometres. It takes 14 hours 30 minutes to fly from Tehran to Tel Aviv. Driving distance from Israel to Nigeria is 6,349 kilometers; total straight line flight distance from Nigeria to Iran is 5, 223 kilometers or 2,820 nautical miles. These are what the World Wide Web tell me. Yet, I want to say that we should prepare for the heat of that kitchen of misery.

What is going on in the Middle East is a war thousands of kilometres away from our country, so why should Nigeria be worried? Heat from distant fires is a reality in modern warfare. The shockwaves will soon wash up on our shores; household economies will be in trouble, even here. Collapsing deckings will sink on wayfarers.

There are no regional wars again. This is a world war, undeclared. Listen to what experts are saying. Ponderously, they tell us that this war is not just about geopolitics. They say it is about budgets, about prices, and about livelihoods. They point at the direct combatants, fighting and bleeding. They add some more elegant lines. They say, as if in elegy, sing that: Israel bleeds dollars to stay safe; Iran bleeds oil to stay afloat; America bleeds billions to hold the line. And countries like Nigeria, with no direct stake in the conflict, are involuntarily dragged into its economic consequences.

Those who hold the above views are right. A globalized world has obliterated the local in wars; the canopy is a worldwide foliage of blood and tears. So, as we watch live footages of explosions in Iran and Israel, let it sink in our heads that the financial cost of what is going on is a bell that tolls not just for Tel Aviv and Tehran. Abuja should also brace up. This is also our war.

In this unfair world, missiles flying in the Middle East means misery in Africa. Except a miracle stops Tehran from burning and Tel Aviv ceases bleeding, poor Abuja is sure going to pay part of the price.

Already, the war has pushed global crude oil prices by over 10 per cent. Oil prices climbed from about $77 to over $86 per barrel on Sunday. Some forty years ago, this would be good news to oil-rich Nigeria. But it is not so today; a dangerous paradox rules our country: We produce and export crude oil; we import refined fuel from those who buy crude from us. A private refinery here even imports crude. Do the maths and be sorry for us.

The war is spiking global fuel refining costs; shipping costs are rising. Those two items alone will soon impact the price of petrol and diesel on the streets from Lagos to Sokoto. Inflation will worsen, incomes will shrink in value; chants of epi npa wa will be shrill and widespread; there will be anger on the streets; the people’s belly will rebel; the government will be helpless and in real trouble.

Check from Al Jazeera to the Wall Street Journal; from Oxford Analytica to Reuters, etc etc; a scary story of costs is coming out of this war. We should be worried because we are involved.

The Food and Agricultural Organisation (FAO) says US$265 billion is needed globally per year to end hunger. That need is largely ignored by countries that have. Instead, the very powerful are expending billions on this avoidable war. For Israel, daily military expenditure is estimated to between $700 million and $800 million. An interceptor costs $700,000; a single missile costs up to $4 million. In one month, Israel would have burnt $12 billion in bombs and missiles.

In a multi million dollar operation, America on Sunday bombed nuclear sites in Iran and congratulated itself. The costs in materials didn’t bother it all.

They will pass the bills to the weak and hike the rate of hunger. Who cares? Before its plunge into the war on Sunday, the United States was already spending billions of dollars on the conflict. It spent on repositioning naval carriers, it spent on enhancing missile defense for allies, it spent on deploying reconnaissance and on logistics support. It has started spending uncommon billions on uncommon bombs bursting Iran.

Burning billions on wars is nothing to the super powers. They profit from their investments in conflicts. The US fought in and prospered from the First World War. Read John Maurice Clark’s ‘The War’s Aftermath in America’, published in Current History (1916-1940) Whenever and wherever you see that country called America in combat, know that it does so for peace and profit, especially for profit. Read Stuart D. Brandes’ ‘Warhogs: A History of War Profits in America.’ They pull the trigger, the mugus of the world pay the price.

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

By Lasisi Olagunju

Who knows Òkòlò in Oyo? Òkòlò was a Tapa (Nupe) and a slave of the Alaafin of Oyo. His duty was to gather grass to feed the king’s horses.

The man was a slave with freeborn friends, and he had quite many. One day, one of those friends was found to be owing someone a thousand cowries –which was a hefty sum in those early days. Payment was due but Òkòlò’s friend could not find the money to repay the debt.

The debtor, accompanied by Òkòlò, went to the creditor and pleaded for time. He promised to repay the money within three days and asked that his friend, Òkòlò, be held as surety in the meantime. Òkòlò had no problem with that arrangement, but the wealthy creditor looked at Òkòlò, head to toe, and hissed. He told the debtor to find someone else, not this one. Then, turning to Òkòlò, the rich man said:

“Ta ní mò Òkòlò l’Ọ̀yọ́, sebi oko esin ni o npa? (Who knows Okolo in Oyo, is he not just a grass cutter, chef for the king’s horse?)” The rich man hissed again.

The statement wounded Òkòlò to the heart. It meant he was a nobody in Oyo.

That night, while everyone slept, Òkòlò went alone to the rich man’s house and set it on fire. He did it and stayed put. He stood where he committed the crime of arson until he was caught.

Òkòlò, the arsonist, was brought before the king. Alaafin asked him why he committed the act. Okolo replied that ever since he arrived in Oyo, no one had regarded him as someone of worth. The climax was the rich man counting his nine toes before his very eyes. He said the insult that no one knew him in Oyo wounded him deeply, and that that was why he burnt the house so that the man and all Oyo people would finally know he was present and able.

The Alaafin listened attentively and had a deep sigh. He asked the rich man if it was true he uttered those words against the poor slave. The big man looked down and said “Yes, Kabiyesi.” Alaafin rebuked the rich man for not knowing how to talk (kò mo òrò so). The king then ordered his royal workers to rebuild the burnt house of the man who had money but lacked tact and decorum. Òkòlò was not punished; instead, he became a free somebody now known all over the empire.

From that day forward, no one said again: “Ta ní mò Òkòlò l’Ọ̀yọ́, sebi oko esin ni o npa? (Who knows Okolo in Oyo, is he not just a fodder gatherer for the king’s horse?).” Across Yorubaland, the saying changed in tone, form and meaning. It became: “Ta ní mò Òkòlò l’Ọ̀yọ́ kí ó tó ti iná bo ilé? (Who knew Òkòlò in Oyo until he burnt down a house?).” It has become a song line of victory for anyone who was once overlooked or dismissed as insignificant until a bold, dramatic act brought them recognition. Read Okolo’s story in S.O. Bada’s ‘Owe Yoruba ati Isedale Won’ (1973: page 63-64).

Lesson: Whatever we do or say, we should not leave anyone behind or set their esteem on fire. The forgotten and the despised will always force their way into view; they will announce their presence.

A viral video of President Bola Ahmed Tinubu’s visit to Kaduna last week shows the Commander-in-Chief in the midst of a momentary scare. It is a moment of intense unease that went viral and sparked varied interpretations. The president’s online enemies said the tiger momentarily lost his tigritude. The video clip is from the president’s TVC live coverage of the visit. The Nigeria police said the video was doctored by the president’s enemies to show the breach it depicts.

The story behind the incident: A man broke through security barriers and made a dash for the president where he stood, making a speech and blowing dogo turenchi (big grammar). The video shows neither the intruding man nor his dash. Instead, what announced his drama is the footage of a frozen president and a ruffled, rattled security taking positions. Police later clarified that the man was a certain Umar Mohammed, a native of Anguwan Muazu in Kaduna and “an ardent supporter of both the President and Governor Uba Sani.” Police said the man “acted out of overwhelming excitement” because he loved the president and the governor and wanted to be near them.

We are lucky the Kaduna man did not do what Òkòlò did in Old Oyo. The man merely caused a stir with a dash; he did not set the Nigerian house on fire.

The police did not stop at saying the unruly was the president’s man. They announced that Umar had a psychiatric disorder but was allowed into the venue like other APC supporters, dressed in party regalia and waving banners of his heroes. All political parties have enthusiastic supporters, the ruling party has, and they came out to receive their president in Kaduna. But, unlike others, the “mad” Òkòlò man of Kaduna did not stay in his lane; he crossed into the protected zone uninvited so that he would be unmissable by his idols. His leap over the protocol barriers at the venue of the presidential event was a symbolic act that echoed louder than any shout, and was shriller than any chant or cheer from his peers. He made a difference.

The man made a splash but the police said no weapon was found on him; what he was longing for was just the recognition by his two heroes and by all of us who would read his ‘heroic’ story. And he got what he wanted – if that was all he wanted.

The police suggested that the ‘innocent’ disruption was weaponised in online spaces by dark forces. It declared that the viral video had been doctored to misrepresent the man’s actions. The police frowned on the “distortion” of the footage into narratives of conspiracy and danger. It warned against such politicisation and announced that a probe was on. We will be happy to report the findings.

“Is that a threat?” asks Henry Ian Schiller in a 1975 article of that title where he interrogates the various categories of threat. It is Schiller’s position that sometimes, the presence of those who should not be present is a threat. Umar’s Kaduna obtrusion was. But I will be shocked if the desperate trespasser and his street mates cared about our concerns. Those in power who should care are also spinning the threat into the echo chambers of nonsense. There may be many more like that man where he leapt out from. I read the intrusion as not merely a disruption; I see in it a desperate performance of visible proximity for whatever reason.

I am an uninvited guest in this matter; now I am about to ask some uninvited questions on this case: If the Kaduna intruder was “mad” as the police claimed, who then gave the insane the party dress he reportedly wore? Chinua Achebe in his ‘The Madman’ parallels a mad man who is dressed up with a sane but naked Nwibe. Exactly like that pair, who should we say is really mad between the Kaduna clothier and the clothed who created a scene? How many more psychiatric patients were in those party dresses and in that crowd?

The police said the ‘mad’ man simply wanted to see his leaders up close. But in a society where the ill, the ignored, and the socially marginalised often blend into the background, his act of breaking into the elite cordon was a poignant daring demand for restitutory performance by the state. Those at the fringes must, sometimes, disturb and assail order to be seen and to be counted.

To dehumanise is to deprive of positive human qualities. A failed Nigeria has created many Òkòlò and Umar, desperate men of dehumanised existence. They fiddle with match boxes and hold dangerous torches in search of their stolen destiny. Some other mad people in that same North were filmed tearing down the president’s billboards. How bad is their own ‘madness’? What does all this tell about the future and the dreaded, high-stake elections that are coming?

In breaching the protocol in Kaduna, Umar Mohammed became a symbol of the invisible seeking recognition. His story is a reminder that those whom society overlooks, the voiceless, the deprived, have their own ways of announcing their presence. And often, their cries do not come through official microphones which are too far from the reach of their ‘dirty’ beings. Their cries barge in through unfiltered acts of yearning that disrupt polished stability. They always force a second glance by lighting a flare in the dark. Òkòlò did it in Old Oyo; Umar did last week in Kaduna.

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