By Chinedu Agu

They sweep to court in flowing thread,
With heavy books and learned head,
Their voices grave, their faces cool,
Yet some belong not to the Bench, but Stool.

They speak of law with solemn air,
As though pure justice seated there,
But when their rulings reek of greed,
The mask slips off and shows the deed.

A Bench is where the upright sit,
Where wisdom, truth, and law are fit,
A place for minds both firm and fair,
Not bought by bribe nor bent by fear.

A Bench is meant for those who stand
With cleanest heart and steadiest hand,
Who fear no king, obey no purse,
And will not make the nation worse.

But there are some, in robe and chain,
Who turn the law to private gain,
Who dine with thieves, then rise to rule,
These are the Members of the Stool.

They dress corruption up in lace,
And give injustice legal face,
They jail the weak, protect the strong,
Then write long judgments to mask the wrong.

They twist the facts, distort the scale,
And help the truth itself to fail,
They call it law, they call it right,
While strangling justice in broad daylight.

They wink at fraud, they bless deceit,
They trample votes beneath their feet,
Then from the comfort of their stool,
Pronounce the nation calm and cool.

Now hear the link, both sharp and plain,
Between the two we rightly name:
There is a stool on which men sit,
And stool the body passes out of it.

One stool supports the human frame,
The other brings disgust and shame,
But when corrupt men mount the throne,
Too often both are fused in one.

For some sit down on stool to judge,
Then stool out rulings soaked in sludge,
They empty filth on rights and votes,
Then hide the stench in learned notes.

They sit on stool, then stool while sitting,
And call the odour precedent.
They dump on rights, on votes, on justice,
Then ask us all to call it scent.

They stool out orders in the night,
Against the weak, against the right,
And when the people cry, “This is foul!”
They answer back with legal growl.

There are some who, for promised rise,
Will lock up truth before men’s eyes,
Remand the weak in prison to please the State,
Then, dream of higher seat and fate.
They trade their oath for borrowed tool,
Those are Members of the Stool.

And some, when liberty seeks breath,
Will hand it over still to death,
Refuse fair bail when power calls,
Or sign detention from police halls.
Where bribe and fear the gavel rule,
Such hands belong not Bench, but Stool.

Their judgments drop like soiled disgrace,
They splash upon the public face,
And every page they proudly sign
Smells less like law, more like decline.

That is why Bench and Stool divide,
Though both may serve as seats of pride,
A Bench lifts honour, strength, and school,
A Stool collects the body’s stool.

A Bench is hard because it trains
The back to bear the law’s demands,
It teaches balance, poise, and grace,
And does not stink up every place.

A Stool is lower, easier, small,
It asks for little spine at all,
And suits the man who likes to bend,
To crawl for favour, scrape, and send.

Perhaps that is the reason why
Some judges never reach that height,
The Bench requires a straighter soul,
The Stool is made for those who fold.

Yet let us not in anger blind
The honest few of noble mind,
For some still serve with conscience clean,
True Members of the Bench are seen.

They do not sell what must be free,
They guard the law and liberty,
They shame the dark, resist the bribe,
And will not join the crawling tribe.

Their judgments do not limp or smell,
They read the facts, they reason well,
They do not twist the law to tool,
They keep far off from every Stool.

So let the nation learn at last
That robes alone are shadows cast,
For silk and wig, however fine,
Cannot make rotten timber shine.

Call each man by the fruit he bears,
Not by the robe or courtly airs,
The one who keeps the law a shield
Is Bench, unbought, and will not yield.

But he who trades the truth for gold,
Who helps oppression tighten hold,
Who stains the court and mocks the rule,
Is not of Bench, but of the Stool.

And so I say, with rhyme and sting,
Not every judge deserves the ring,
For some uphold the commonwealth,
While some auction justice, law, and health.

Let upright judges wear the Bench,
Its weight, its honour, and its strength,
But those who soil the nation’s school
Belong forever to the Stool.

Chinedu Agu is a Lawyer | Notary Public | Past Secretary, NBA Owerri | Former Political Detainee [FPD] of Imo State Government.
+2348032568512

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

Nigerian soldiers do not just carry the weight of a rifle and ammunition, nor the exhaustion of long deployments in hostile terrain; they carry the burden of knowing that, for all the rhetoric of patriotism and sacrifice, the nation they defend does not always defend them in return.

Across the many theatres of insurgency, terrorism and banditry across Nigeria, military and law enforcement personnel stand between chaos and order. Yet, their courage and sacrifice are too often repaid with neglect and silence.

Nigeria has been at war with itself for over a decade. What began as a localised insurgency has metastasised into a complex web of terror: Boko Haram, ISWAP, bandits, and armed militias. The violence has become routine, almost normalised.

In early 2026 alone, multiple attacks across Borno, Zamfara, and Kaduna states claimed the lives of soldiers and civilians alike. In one series of coordinated assaults, insurgents overran military bases, killing scores of troops and abducting civilians. Elsewhere, ambushes on patrol units and drone-assisted attacks on army formations revealed a disturbing evolution in the sophistication of these groups.

Behind every statistic is a soldier who did not return home. A family that received a dreaded call. A child who must now grow up without a parent. Yet, for those who remain on the frontlines, the war continues with limited resources, stretched logistics, and growing fatigue, while those at the helm of affairs live in opulence.

It is difficult to overstate the strain on Nigeria’s rank-and-file personnel. Soldiers have repeatedly raised concerns about poor pay, delayed allowances, and inadequate welfare. Some have spoken often anonymously of salaries that no longer reflect the harsh economic realities of the country, of entitlements that are either delayed or never paid and of obsolete equipment that is hardly a match for the enemy’s arsenal.

Even when official statements insist that welfare is being prioritised and reforms are underway, the lived experiences of many personnel tell a different story. The gap between policy and practice remains wide. This is not merely an economic issue. It is a question of morale.

A soldier who goes into battle uncertain about his family’s welfare is already fighting two wars—one on the battlefield, and another in his mind. When basic needs such as accommodation, healthcare and nutrition are lacking, it erodes the very foundation of military effectiveness.

History has shown that poorly supported troops are more vulnerable not just to enemy fire, but to disillusionment. During earlier phases of the insurgency, soldiers complained of lacking even basic equipment and provisions, including buying their own uniforms, leaving them feeling abandoned in the face of a determined enemy.

In the United States, however, when a fighter jet was shot down over Iran, an extraordinary rescue operation involving more than 150 aircraft and elite forces was launched to retrieve a single pilot—risking lives, assets, and escalating tensions to ensure no soldier was left behind. Yet in Nigeria, the recent killing of a senior military general in active service passed with far less urgency, reflection, or visible national mobilisation.

The Cost of Speaking Up

Reports have emerged of personnel who raise concerns about welfare, corruption, or operational deficiencies being threatened or silenced. In a system where discipline is paramount, dissent is often viewed not as a call for reform, but as insubordination. But patriotism should not demand silence in the face of injustice.

A professional military must be able to confront its internal challenges honestly. Suppressing grievances does not eliminate them; it merely pushes them underground, where they fester and grow. Without addressing these issues, the military will continue to fight a war it cannot win.

Recent developments, including the arrest and trial of military officers over alleged subversive activities, have further heightened tensions within the ranks. While discipline and accountability are essential, they must be balanced with fairness, transparency, and respect for rights. A soldier who feels unheard is a soldier whose loyalty is being tested not by ideology, but by neglect.

The most painful contradiction however lies in how Nigeria treats those who defend the state versus those who have taken up arms against it.

In the name of peacebuilding and deradicalisation, repentant terrorists are often offered rehabilitation, reintegration programmes, and support systems designed to ease their return into society or the military. While such initiatives are important and globally recognised as part of counter-insurgency strategy, they raise difficult questions when juxtaposed with the realities faced by serving and retired personnel.

What message does it send when a former insurgent appears to receive more structured support than a wounded soldier? What does it say about national priorities when families of fallen heroes struggle to access pensions, benefits, or even basic recognition? The optics and the reality are deeply troubling. We must be careful not to create a moral imbalance where violence appears more rewarded than service.

A Nation’s Obligation After the Uniform

After service, a different kind of struggle begins. Retired personnel often face delays in pension payments, inadequate healthcare, and limited opportunities for reintegration into civilian life. For those who are injured in service, the challenges are even more severe with physical disabilities compounded by insufficient support systems.

For families of the fallen, the situation can be heartbreaking. Bureaucratic hurdles and delayed compensation leave many feeling forgotten. These are not isolated incidents. They reflect systemic gaps in how Nigeria values service beyond active duty. To ask men and women to risk everything for their country is one thing. To abandon them when they can no longer serve is another.

Nigeria is not lacking in rhetoric about its armed forces. Political leaders routinely praise their bravery and sacrifice. There have been recent announcements of salary reviews and welfare initiatives aimed at improving conditions.

But rhetoric is not enough. Those who serve our country deserve to be honoured, protected, and supported. What is needed is a comprehensive, transparent, and accountable system that places the welfare of military and law enforcement personnel at the centre of national security strategy.

This means competitive and timely remuneration that reflects economic realities; guaranteed and efficient pension and compensation systems; healthcare and insurance for personnel and their families; psychological support for those dealing with trauma; clear, safe channels for reporting grievances without fear of reprisal; and structured reintegration programmes for retirees. It also means a shift in mindset from viewing welfare as an afterthought to recognising it as a core component of operational effectiveness.

Nigeria asks a great deal of its soldiers. It asks them to go where others will not go, to confront dangers most citizens will never see, and to make sacrifices that cannot be fully repaid. The least we can do is ensure that their service is met with dignity, fairness, and care.

A country that fails its defenders risks more than just low morale. It risks weakening the very institution that stands between order and anarchy. Those on the front lines are not asking for charity; they are asking for justice — to be valued not just in words but in action.

Nigeria must do better for its soldiers, for their families, and for the future of a nation that still depends on their courage to survive. We honour the courage and sacrifice of our men and women on the frontlines, whose unwavering commitment keeps our nation safe, often at great personal cost.

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

If I am ‘accused’ of being pregnant with twins, shouldn’t the onus be on me to confirm or deny the unusual news? Why would Dr Lasisi Olagunju or Bamidele Johnson decide to climb the roof to shout themselves hoarse that Funke is not pregnant and indeed (for good measure), she is a virgin?

So, the Federal Government released the list of Suspected Terror Sponsors (STS) last week after many moons of consultations with the gods and the ancestors. Within minutes of the release, some people started protesting on behalf of the listed, even accusing President Bola Tinubu of witch hunting. Well, it is witchcraft to thumb your chest and say you know a pregnant tortoise just by watching it crawl. Are those protesting on behalf of those not protesting witches  or not? Me, I made a long mental note of their names and I have put them on a Supplementary List I’m trying to find a name for.

As if that was not enough, I did not hear any noise or dirges when Brigadier-General, dozens of soldiers were slaughtered like they had no wives, children or parents. Encouraged, terrorists took out a Colonel, Commanding Officer and more gallant soldiers. Nobody cited their fundamental human rights. They signed up for the job, they must have rationalised. But such sudden departures, amputation without anaesthesia of dreams are always painful irrespective of the job you signed up for. It doesn’t matter whether your are a trader at a market shut down five years ago or a soldier trapped in a armoured tank with a dead engine.

We should mourn, mourn wisely, mourn decently.

They said it was accidental.

A bomb meant for shadows fell on a market full of mothers, traders, children—people whose only crime was showing up for life. Somewhere between Borno State and Yobe State, grief rose like smoke again, stubborn, familiar, Nigerian.

And as we mourn, as we shake our heads and count the dead in whispers, a harder question pushes through the silence:

What kind of people hide terrorists?

What kind of people trade with them?

Let me answer you with a story. Not from the headlines, but from the old paths our grandmothers walked—where stories did not just entertain, they warned.

Long before asphalt roads and security briefings, there was a quiet town called Aduke-Oke, named after a powerful priestess and healer.

It sat between two forests. One gave fruit. The other gave fear.

The people of Aduke-Oke were farmers, traders, hunters. They slept with their doors open. Goats wandered into neighbours’ compounds and came back fat. Trust was their currency.

Until the night the forest changed.

At first, it was whispers, suspicion discussed in hashed tones.

Travellers spoke of men who did not farm but ate, men who did not invest but came to collect dividends. They came at night and left tears behind.

Bandits. Thieves. Agbalowomeeri, the ones who snatched from the poor had taken over.

The Baale (village head) sent the towncrier out. ‘Do not leave a snake on your roof, it will find its way into your bedchamber. A snake is wicked even when it looks tiny and harmless. No matter what these snatchers tell you, do not let them live in your hut. Do not trade with them or accept their gifts.

Everyone nodded and agreed with Baale.

Everyone… except Akanmu.

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Akanmu was not poor. That is what makes this story bitter. He had land. He had barns. He had wives who cooked steaming meals and many children. Pounded yam and bush meat were not just for festive occasions. It was just dinner.

But Akanmu had a hunger that his large farms could not satisfy—the hunger for more, irrespective of the source of that more.

So when the bandits came—not with guns blazing but with quiet requests,  Akanmu listened.

“We need food,” they said.

“We will pay.”

Not coins. Not naira.

Gold.

And when evil pays, it pays well. It spoils his victim until he loses his sense of reasoning and decency. 

At first, Akanmu only sold them yams. Then goats. Then information.

“Which houses are wealthy?”

“Who just sold harvest?”

“Which road has no vigilantes?”

Akanmu knew everything and Akanmu said everything.

Soon Aduke-Oke began to bleed.

One market day, the bandits struck.

They did not come for Akanmu’s house. No.

‘A kii fi omo ore bo ore.’

He was one of the bandits now so his compound had immunity.  The monster refused to eat the man feeding him.

The thieves came for the market.

Women were dragged. Men were beaten. Goods were stolen. A boy who tried to run did not get far.

The village cried. The elders cursed the forest, then prayed to the ancestors.

Akanmu, as an untouchable, counted his gold with his wives in the hut.

While the village buried its dead, Akanmu built a bigger barn, acquired more land.

He became “Oloye Akanmu”.

People greeted him with forced smiles and quiet suspicion because no one really could swear with facts.

Soon, the monster finished its regular victims but it was still hungry. As the Yorubas say, when what we enjoy eating finishes, the things we used to ignore should get ready to be eaten.

The bandits grew bolder. Why wouldn’t they? Someone was feeding them. Someone was guiding them. Their heartless partners profited from the blood and gore.

One night, they came again but this time, they did not go to the market.

They went to Akanmu’s compound.

Perhaps greed made them careless, perhaps evil does not keep loyalty.

Perhaps karma finally found the road to an evil man’s hut.

They broke his doors, scattered his barns and carted away his gold. Even when Akanmu shouted, “I am your friend!”

They laughed.

Friend?

A man who betrays his own people is not anybody’s friend. He is a tool and tools can be discarded when they have outlived their usefulness.

By daybreak, Akanmu’s compound was smoke and silence, and ghost of its once bubbly self. Well, the bubble had burst. One wife was gone. The  second wife was groaning in the throes of childbirth,  unattended. Another lay wounded.

His children, those barefoot, laughing children, were all cowering in their mothers’ huts. The village gathered, not in anger this time, but in cold understanding.

The elders did not curse him.

They simply said, “The snake has found its keeper.”

Akanmu was not killed that day. No. He lived. That was his punishment. He died in instalments. The gods ensured his shame. Both those who feared him and the ones who called him Baba Oloye watched him from afar as he sat in the ruins of what greed built.

To remember every warning he ignored.

To know that the evil he fed had finally learned his name and was calling him nonstop.

Now, let’s return to our reality.

What kind of people hide terrorists?

They are not always poor.

They are not always forced.

Sometimes, they are Akanmu.

People who just profit from evil. They sell food to killers, give shelter to destroyers.

They trade information for profit, knowing that their decisions would cause death of many. They are feeding babies and pregnant women to monsters. They  collect money to kill our soldiers. They send their children to private universities with money made from increasing the number of widows and widowers.

They sit among us. They smile with us. They mourn with us.

And then they return to the shadows to feed the very fire that will one day burn our roofs, our hopes, our dreams.

Here’s the bitter truth Nigeria must face.

Terrorism does not survive on guns alone.It survives on information from insiders, supplies from enablers, silence from communities.

Every terrorist hiding in the forest has a friend in town, parents who know his ways are not pure, wives or side-chicks who profit from his blood and sorrow enterprise.

We can continue  to mumble “It is not my business.” But is our business,  our pain, our losses, our disappearing nation. Like Akanmu, like that market between Borno State and Yobe State where innocent lives were lost not just to a bomb but to a long chain of complicity we refuse to break.

It is easy to blame government, to blame soldiers, the system. However,  let us ask ourselves: who is feeding the snake? A terrorist in the bush is dangerous but a collaborator in the village? That one is deadlier. The snake Nigeria and its terrorists sympathisers, banditry rationalisers and sponsors have fed over the years has become a monster-deity demanding the flesh of army generals and blood of Colonels. It is not longer satisfied with staying in its grove, it wants new territories, daily sacrifice.

We must kill this snake before it kills Nigeria. That is why I’m suspicious of those who insist this monster-deity has fundamental rights. As how now?

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

By Philip Ayazi, Esq.

The above write up by one Sunny Igbonugo (The Tiny Voice) makes interesting reading. Not for felicity of language or the allure of logic, but for blatant inaccuracies being passed off as the truth.

The writer certainly did not get his facts right, which gives the disturbing impression that he did not even read the actual text of the judgments upon which the writeup is anchored.

It is simply not correct that Hon Justice Chima Centus Nweze, JSC was on the seven-man panel of Justices that sacked Emeka Ihedioha, and pronounced Hope Ozodinma as Governor of Imo State.

It was only upon the retirement of a member of that panel (Sanusi, JSC) that C. C. Nweze JSC was drafted in as replacement to hear the review application, in which he wrote the dissenting opinion referred to.

Since C. C. Nweze JSC did not take part in the sacking of Emeka Ihedioha, his Lordship had no “earlier position” that was subsequently “disavowed” in the review application.

Everyone is entitled to his opinion, but certainly not to his own facts. Facts are sacred. Any writer who distorts facts loses legitimacy.

There is no gainsaying that his Lordship’s subsequent decision in the case involving Ahmed Lawan was very controversial. However, it is extreme exaggeration to characterise Lawan’s case as “no less impactful and damaging to Nigeria’s legal jurisprudence” as the Uzodinma case.

Uzodinma’s case was a unanimous decision of a seven-man panel (technically called a full court) in which a candidate who scored a distant 4th position was catapulted to the top. It was unprecedented, hence Nweze wrote in his scathing decent that the decision would “haunt our electoral jurisprudence for a long time to come”.

But Lawan’s case was a 3:2 split decision by a panel of five justices. The two cases are poles apart, akin to the comparison between apples and oranges. The only similarity is that both are political cases involving high profile litigants that generated a great deal of public interest.

The narrow issue in Lawan’s case (initiated by originating summons) was whether allegations bordering on criminality can be be resolved on the basis of affidavit evidence without calling oral evidence.

C. C. Nweze JSC and his two co-travelers in the majority answered in the negative, whilst the two other Justices in the minority thought otherwise.

The minority had their say and the majority had their way. That is simply how disagreements are resolved in a multi-member panel of Judges/Justices.

In the leading judgment Nweze JSC pointed out that the bedrock of the suit revealed allegations of fraudulent practices as the 1st respondent (Machina) accused the APC of fraudulently substituting his name with that of Ahmed Lawan. Consequently, his lordship held that in light of the allegation of fraud, the case ought not have been commenced (or determined) by an originating summons, insisting that there was need to call witnesses to prove the allegation of fraud.

A litany of decided cases lend credence to the stance taken by the majority.

The minority however harped on the fact that Lawan had contested the presidential primary election of the APC and was ineligible to participate in the senatorial primary election, which was not the issue before the Supreme Court!

The point to vigorously underscore is that no two judges or lawyers see things from the same perspective, and the fact alone that C.C. Nweze JSC pitched tent with the majority in holding that criminal allegations (fraud) are ill-suited for resolution by way of originating summons without calling oral evidence certainly did not make him the villain the writer craned to project.

After all, Nweze JSC was only one of three justices in the majority, but no scathing remark was directed at the other two justices. For reasons best known to the writer, Nweze JSC was singled out for undeserved vilification. Perceptive readers deserve to know why.
I will not hazard a guess on the motives of the writer (who, incidentally, is Nweze’s kinsman of Igbo extraction), but something does not ring right!

The Hon Justice C. C. Nweze JSC is (not was) arguably one of the most cerebral judicial personages Nigeria has produced. His Lordship’s legal publications and judicial pronouncements (whether as lead judgments or contributions) as a Justice of the Court of Appeal and the Supreme Court of Nigeria bear eloquent testimony to an extraordinary man whose searing intellect and strength of character can scarcely be diminished by the fact that he was part of the majority in Lawan’s case.

Notwithstanding unwarranted vitriolic attacks and aspersions in write-ups such as the present, Hon. Justice C. C. Nweze, JSC occupies (and will continue to occupy) pride of place in the judicial Hall of Fame alongside formidable jurists like Oputa, Kayode, Eso, Bello, Obaseki, Aniagolu, Niki Tobi, et al.

The assertion that C. C. Nweze, JSC died as a “broken man” is a monumental disservice to the memory of a man who became a legend in his own lifetime.

I will excuse the author’s understandable lack of awareness that his Lordship had battled debilitating illness for more than a decade and half before eventually succumbing to the cold hands of death,
peacefully, on 30/7/2023 after undergoing a not-so-successful major surgery!

The writer and other self-appointed public commentators of his ilk should refrain from disturbing the peaceful repose of a great soul, the lachets of whose sandals they may not be worthy to untie.

Philip Ayazi, Esq.

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