On March 19, 2026, in Ozoro community, Delta State, Nigeria, what should have been a cultural observance reportedly descended into a spectacle of terror. Videos circulated across social media showing women and girls being chased, stripped, groped, and assaulted by mobs of men during a so-called fertility festival called Alue-Do Festival.

Some of the footage, too disturbing to recount in detail, captured not only the violence itself, but the chilling atmosphere surrounding it: laughter, cheering, mobile phones held high, and boys, children recording and uploading the humiliation of women as if it were entertainment.

The incident has sparked outrage across Nigeria and beyond, with authorities confirming arrests and investigations into the assaults. m

The Anatomy of a Justified Violence

According to reports, the festival, known locally as a fertility rite, includes warnings for women to remain indoors during certain rituals. These warnings have now become the cornerstone of public defence: a dangerous logic that suggests any woman who steps outside has, in effect, consented to whatever happens to her body. This is not culture. It is coercion.

The idea that women must disappear from public space to remain safe is itself a form of structural violence. It reinforces a worldview in which men are not expected to exercise restraint or accountability; instead, women are burdened with the responsibility of avoiding harm. In Ozoro, that logic reached its most grotesque expression: public space became a hunting ground, where a woman’s presence was treated as permission.

Even more disturbing is the performative nature of the violence. It was not hidden; it was staged, recorded, and shared. The presence of young boys watching, filming, and even participating points to something deeper than a breakdown of order. It signals the socialisation of a generation into a culture where women’s bodies are objects of spectacle and violation.

Community leaders have sought to distance the tradition from the violence, insisting the festival is a symbolic fertility rite meant to support women seeking children. This distinction is important but insufficient. Even if the original intent is benign, its current manifestation reveals a failure of cultural governance. How does a ritual that permits the public targeting of “childless” couples not devolve into the violation of women?

Traditions do not exist in a vacuum; they evolve within social contexts. When a ritual repeatedly creates conditions for abuse, it must be interrogated, not defended. Claims that “outsiders” hijacked the process are familiar, often used to protect tradition while disowning its consequences. But the scale of the violence suggests something systemic: a permissive environment where such acts could occur openly. Culture is not only what is intended, but what is tolerated.

When Rituals Enable Harm and Technology Amplifies Violence

The tragedy in Ozoro is not an isolated incident. Across Nigeria and parts of the region, traditional and quasi-religious practices—whether explicit or subtle—continue to sanction the violation of women’s bodies. A 2018 poll by the Thomson Reuters Foundation ranked Nigeria among the most dangerous places in the world for women, underscoring a pattern that persists.

Beyond Delta State, this pattern takes many forms. In some communities, widowhood rites subject women to degrading treatment in the name of purification. In others, early and forced marriages are justified as cultural or religious obligations. Elsewhere, accusations of witchcraft disproportionately target women and girls, leading to violence, exile, or even death.

What unites these practices is not their diversity, but their gendered impact. They regulate, discipline, and punish women’s bodies in ways men rarely experience.

Technology has now amplified this violence. Social media serves as both witness and accomplice, fuelling outrage but also providing a stage for perpetrators who seek validation through virality. The recording of assaults by young boys reveals a troubling shift: the line between participation and documentation has collapsed. Violence is no longer just an act; it is content.

This raises urgent questions about digital ethics and accountability. When violence goes viral, it extends victims’ trauma beyond the moment of assault, exposing them to repeated circulation, commentary, and judgment.

The Blame Game: Patriarchy’s Oldest Trick

Perhaps the most predictable response to the Ozoro incident has been the blame placed on women themselves. This is patriarchy’s oldest trick: shifting focus from perpetrators to victims, from accountability to justification.

Victim-blaming serves many purposes. It absolves men of responsibility, preserves the status quo, and reinforces the idea that women’s safety is conditional, dependent on behaviour, choices, and compliance. But let us be clear: no warning, tradition, or cultural context can justify the violation of another human being. To suggest otherwise is to normalise violence.

The response of the Delta State Police—arrests, investigations, and public condemnation—is a necessary first step, but it is not enough. Claims that no rape report has been filed miss the point. How are women and girls expected to come forward against a mob in an environment that already blames them?

Nigeria’s legal framework is clear: sexual assault is a crime, regardless of context. As rightly stated, no custom or tradition is superior to the rights of citizens. This principle must be enforced consistently through regulation of public festivals, accountability for organisers and community leaders, protection mechanisms for women and girls, and sustained public education to challenge harmful norms.

Yet law alone cannot solve this. Cultural change must accompany legal enforcement. Culture is not static; it is shaped by people and can be reshaped. The task is not to abolish culture, but to transform it by confronting harmful practices and deciding which traditions we preserve, reform, or leave behind.

Beyond Outrage: What Must Happen Next

What happened in Ozoro is a mirror held up to society. It reflects not only the actions of those who perpetrated the violence, but the attitudes that enable it—the jokes, the excuses, the silences. It reveals a moral crossroads.

On one path lies the continued defence of harmful practices in the name of culture. On the other lies the difficult but necessary work of confronting them, even when they are deeply rooted. This is not a complicated choice. At its core, it is not a debate about tradition, but about humanity. Outrage matters; it shows we are not entirely numb to injustice, but outrage alone is not enough.

What is needed now is sustained action: justice for victims through thorough investigations, prosecutions, and support services; community accountability, with leaders taking responsibility rather than deflecting blame; cultural reform through honest dialogue about harmful practices; and education that raises a generation of boys and men who understand consent, respect, and equality.

The events in Ozoro are not just a local tragedy. They are a national and global warning. When violence against women is normalised and justified, it erodes the fabric of society. It teaches boys that power is dominance, girls that safety is conditional, and communities that harm can be excused.

That is the moral crisis we must confront. A culture that cannot protect its women and girls is not preserving tradition; it is perpetuating injustice. And that is a legacy we cannot afford to pass on.

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

 

It was on March 6. I caught this well dressed guy peeing in the drainage at the turning to my house. Already stressed from sitting in traffic for hours after attending the 2026 edition of Obafemi Awolowo Foundation Annual Lecture in Ikenne, I wound down my car window and bellowed at him, very angry;

‘Next time you pee near my house like that, I’ll make sure you never pee again.’ He was shocked.

Even I was more shocked at my threat. How exactly was I going to make him stop peeing? Really, Funke. I quickly wound up the window. My driver burst into laughter. But I was angry. Would he do that in America or Dubai? We just think Nigeria is about nonsense, all and every type of nonsense.

But let us start at the beginning

Once upon a Lagos morning when the sun still rose gently and not like a landlord knocking for rent there was a decree: thou shalt clean thy surroundings… or else.

The story begins in the no nonsense days of Muhammadu Buhari and his equally stern deputy, Tunde Idiagbon. Nigeria in 1984 was not smiling. Indiscipline was everywhere on the roads, in offices, and very visibly, in the gutters that had long given up on flowing.

So the government did what strict African parents do when children misbehave: they introduced a national “reset button” called the War Against Indiscipline WAI for short. And one of WAI’s most famous children was Saturday Environmental Sanitation.

Now, this was not your gentle “please sweep your compound” suggestion. Oh no. This was law, backed by soldiers, whistles, and the kind of stare that could make a grown man remember his childhood sins.

On the last Saturday of every month, between 7 a.m. and 10 a.m., Nigeria would pause. Markets went quiet. Roads emptied. Even the ever busy Lagos danfo drivers respected themselves at least for those three hours. Movement was restricted. If you were found outside without a broom, cutlass, or at least the look of someone going to fetch water, you were in trouble.

And trouble had a uniform for years.

Soldiers and sanitation officers mounted roadblocks like exam invigilators. “Where are you going?” they would bark.

“To buy bread,” one unfortunate fellow might reply.

“At 8 a.m.? On sanitation day? Bread that cannot wait till 10?” Next thing, he was doing frog jumps beside a gutter, contemplating his life choices.

But here’s the beautiful chaos of it all: people actually cleaned.

Families came out in their oldest clothes, armed with brooms that had seen better days. Children were drafted like reluctant soldiers. Mothers supervised like generals. Fathers, who usually had “urgent meetings”, suddenly became experts in clearing drains.

Gutters were desilted. Bushes were cut. Refuse was gathered into obedient heaps, waiting for trucks that sometimes came… and sometimes had their own plans.

There was also community spirit real, raw, unfiltered.

Neighbours who had not spoken in months would suddenly bond over a stubborn pile of dirt. “Madam, push it small!”

“Oga, carry that side!” Before you knew it, sanitation had become a mini festival of forced unity.

Of course, Nigerians being Nigerians, creativity found its way in. Some people sprinkled water in front of their houses and disappeared indoors. Others swept the same spot for two hours, perfecting the art of “appearing busy.” And a few brave souls tried to sneak out only to be escorted back by uniformed reality or slammed with a fine or infuriating delays.

Over time, as democracy returned and soldiers retreated to the barracks, the fear factor reduced. The whistles became softer, enforcement grew weaker. And like many good Nigerian habits, Saturday sanitation began to fade, surviving today in fragments across states.

But for those who remember, it was a time when the nation paused not for football, not for elections but to face its dirt, literally.

And for three disciplined hours, Nigeria almost looked like a country that had its act together.

Then, it was cancelled or revoked or adjusted to function in all markets on Thursday. I guess someone thought only market women are dirty and so should be made to lock up their stalls and shops in the markets and shopping complexes till 10 am every Thursday. That fellow forgot that the fabric dealer came from an estate, the pepper trader and the butcher came from one community that remained unswept and unkempt. So, as that smell that made it impossible to enjoy street rice on ‘horo Dosunmu’ and Amala on point in Surulere and Ogba disappeared, they simply returned ‘home’. Yes, to the streets, even 3 star estates. They started lining the streets in black suspicious bags, streets that ought to be tree lined.

On your way to work, you see urchins and beggars just rising from sleep, scratching and spitting, then you see the black dustbin bags, standing or sitting, glaring at you, as if in defiance, dozens of them. And my grandmother taught my sister and I that beholding dirt or stepping into dirt early in the morning is bad luck, indeed she said it can make the beholder poor. Maybe these dirt and dirt bags are the reasons behind the tough life in Lagos. Everybody is running into one another, working from dawn to dusk, with little or no profit to take ‘home’ during Sallah and Christmas.

Governor Babajide Sanwo Olu must have seen that Lagos was going back to Egypt. Maybe he and his cabinet members also had grandmothers like mine and have realized that where filth dwells, wealth cannot live.

The commissioners must have all perceived the stubborn smell that clings to certain streets in the state, that smell that is not the rich aroma of buka pepper soup or the seductive invitation of suya smoke curling into the evening air. What we have these days is the old, angry smell of neglect of overflowing plastic bags flowing into gutters that are clogged and dead.

Between 2016 and now, Lagos has become a city that forgot that cleanliness is not a luxury, it is survival.

Welcome to the shocking cost of a dirty Lagos.

We like to think dirt is just an eyesore, something you wrinkle your nose at, complain about, and then jump over on your way to hustle. But dirt is expensive, very expensive.

First, let’s talk money. Lagosians spend billions yearly treating diseases that thrive in filth malaria, cholera, typhoid.

That “small fever” that keeps you in bed for three days? It is not small. It is rent money quietly walking out of your pocket.

It is productivity slipping through your fingers. It is school fees ending up as hospital receipts.

Then there is flooding. Ah, Lagos floods are usually accompanied by dramatic lamentations of emotional blackmail that rain or sea mermaids have come to collect their due. We conveniently forget that gutters clogged with pure water sachets, plastic bottles, and yesterday’s indifference confuses rain when it arrives. It has to go somewhere. Your living room, bedroom, compound filled with expensive cars become options. Your stocked warehouse is another option. Since you cannot unclog or desilt your drainages, your new smart television must float. Your queen size mattresses will drink until it’s drunk. Shops will shut down. Goods worth billions of naira will spoil. You are free to call it “natural disaster”, government negligence or even ‘village people attack’, we all know nature does not punish us unprovoked.

But Lagos did not just wake up dirty. No city does. Dirt is a slow rebellion. It begins with one person dropping a sachet on the road. Then another. Then a whole street decides that the gutter is a trash can. Before long, the system collapses not because it was weak, but because we were careless.

And somewhere in all of this, we quietly retired one of the simplest, most effective civic habits we ever had: the three hour Saturday environmental sanitation.

Now that Lagos is ‘bringing back our environmental’ with effect from April 25, some people are protesting. Even me too has something to protest. I would have preferred the sanitation period to stretch till noon. Let our men breathe. Let them relax at home. They are too stressed. Let their wives tend and attend to them from all angles. Let children see their fathers. This new sanitation period is too short. There are too many cobwebs men, sorry, all of us, have to clear. Let us patiently clean it. Please let all other protests and protesters go and rest. I am seriously single minded about this. This is a domestic matter. It does not concern the lawyers. Or are these lawyers against women’s peace of mind?

Let’s go down memory lane.

The last Saturday of the month once arrived like a stern headmistress. From 7am to 10am, movement was restricted.

No okada racing past. No danfo honking impatiently. Lagos would pause. And in that pause, something magical happened people cleaned.

Children swept compounds grudgingly. Mothers supervised like generals. Fathers suddenly remembered how to handle cutlasses and shovels. Gutters were cleared. Bushes were trimmed. Refuse was gathered. Streets breathed again.

It was not perfect. Some people hid indoors, pretending to be “not around.” Others bribed their way past enforcement officers. But overall, it worked. It reminded us that a city is not cleaned by government alone it is maintained by its people.

Then we stopped.

Seriously though, freedom fighters and human rights activists and their high sounding sleek arguments brought us here. Not everything can be solved with big English.

Rake, brooms and cutlasses deployed well are more effective sometimes. Why do Lagosians always have somewhere to go sef? Where are they always going before day break? How will two or three hours in a whole month to clean your own environment for your own good be a problem? What kind of people are we if we always want to blame others for things we leave or left undone?

Take traffic, for instance.

A blocked drainage today is a flooded road tomorrow. A flooded road becomes gridlock. Gridlock becomes lost man hours. Lost man hours become economic loss. By the time you trace it back, you will find that the problem started with a plastic bottle or moin moin leaves someone casually tossed aside weeks ago.

But perhaps the most shocking cost is not financial.

It is psychological.

There is something that dirt does to the human mind.

It lowers standards.

It whispers,

“Nobody

cares.”

And when nobody cares, anything goes. You see refuse on the road, and you add your own. You see a dirty environment, and you stop expecting better from yourself, from your neighbors, leaders, from your society.

Cleanliness, on the other hand, inspires order. It creates pride. It tells people,

“This place matters.” And when a place matters, people behave differently.

Now that conversations about the return of Saturday environmental sanitation has resurfaced, we must resist the urge to roll our eyes and mutter ‘oh no’.

This is not about nostalgia.

It is about necessity.

Imagine Lagos pausing again, just for three hours once a month. Imagine millions of people stepping out at the same time to clean their immediate environment. Imagine gutters flowing freely, streets looking decent, and refuse managed before it becomes a crisis.

Will it solve everything?

No.

But will it help? Absolutely.

Of course, there is a downside to the movement restriction. Lagos is bigger now. Busier. More complex.

Restricting movement may disrupt businesses, especially for those who survive on daily income. Enforcement could become another avenue for harassment if not properly managed.

These are valid worries.

But here is the thing: every meaningful system requires adjustment, not abandonment. If the old model had flaws, then fix it. Lagos state government must find a way to deploy technology, flexibility for effective enforcement. Education and reorientation of citizens and communities are key to the success of this project.

What we cannot afford is to do nothing because doing nothing is what got us here.

We must also be honest with ourselves. Government cannot sweep every street or clear every gutter. You cannot throw refuse from your car window and then blame the state for flooding. You cannot block drainage with construction waste and then complain when water enters your house.

The return of Saturday sanitation, therefore, is not just a policy discussion. It is a mirror. It forces us to confront our habits, our laziness, our entitlement.

Do we really want a clean Lagos or we just want to complain about a dirty one?

Because the two require very different levels of commitment.

So, as Lagos debates the return of Saturday environmental sanitation, let us approach it not as a punishment, but as a reset button.

Let us remember that Yoruba poem we used to recite in primary school.

Imototo b’ori arun mo’le.

Bi oye tii b’ori ooru

Cleanliness defeats diseases, just like the cold harmattan wind trumps heat.

Three hours of inconvenience versus months of avoidable illness.

Three hours of discipline versus billions lost to preventable damage.

Three hours of collective effort versus a lifetime of complaining.

The math is simple.

Lagos is too important to be dirty, too vibrant to be suffocated by refuse, too ambitious to be slowed down by preventable diseases.

In all, we should be shocked and embarrassed not just about how dirty Lagos has become but about how comfortable we have become living in that dirt.

And that, my dear Lagosian, is what should worry us all.

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

Nigerian politician and human rights activist, Omoyele Sowore, was recently seen in a trending video having a confrontational argument with a Senior Advocate of Nigeria inside the courtroom. The subject of controversy was that Sowore was attempting to grant an interview to members of the press inside the courtroom of the Federal High Court sitting in Abuja. The Senior Counsel made efforts to stop Sowore and the press members from continuing with the interview. Sowore resisted. So too the members of the press who had insisted that the Senior Lawyer should explain the legal basis for attempting to stop the interview.

While the Senior Advocate tried to offer explanations touching on the status of the court, Sowore and the press crew would have none of that. They expressed the view that so long as the presiding judge was yet to enter the courtroom, they reserved the right to conduct the interview on the ground that the court is a public place. They contended that notwithstanding that the Senior Advocate was a lawyer with special privileges, other members of the public have special rights to attend court, sit in the gallery, and conduct press interviews as they may desire.

Every effort made by the Senior Advocate to discourage Sowore and the press members from conducting the interview was turned into a show of chaotic disorder and inciteful comments. This continued unabated until a court orderly was seen urging everyone involved to maintain decorum as she announced the imminent arrival of the judge.

The Court is not a Market Square

The court is like a market square. It shares certain things in common with a market square. For instance, both are public places which can be accessed by members of the public. Some courts are located in the central areas of the city just like most market squares. Court proceedings and market square activities are conducted in the open. Courts and market squares play great roles in advancing commercial objectives. While the market square is the centre of commerce, the court sees to the enforcement of contracts and interpretation of commercial laws, resolving commercial disputes and ensuring fair competition.

But the court is not a market square. Both are diametrically different. While you may attend a market square voluntarily to transact business or for other social engagement, you may find yourself in court for adjudication of dispute or criminal trials based on court’s command usually contained in a Writ of Summons (or other documents known as originating processes) or charges.

All courts in Nigeria are created by law. The Nigerian Constitution 1999 (as amended) creates courts known as superior courts of record under Section 6. These include the Supreme Court (the highest court in the order of hierarchy), the Court of Appeal, Federal High Court, High Court of the Federal Capital Territory/States, National Industrial Court, etc. In addition, there are other specific laws which were enacted to provide other fundamental details which aid the operational efficiency of these courts for the smooth administration of justice. For example, we have the Supreme Court Act, the Court of Appeal Act, the Federal High Court Act, the High Court Laws of the respective states, etc. Market squares do not enjoy similar statute-backed formal structures like the courts.

Market transactions are mostly based on the sale of goods and services. Although some courts are regrettably involved in the “sale” of justice like wares, the real business of the court involves the conduct of judicial proceedings which include the presentation of one’s case and evidence, legal arguments and submission, and the delivery of judgments, making of pronouncements and issuance of orders.

While markets are defined by noise and bustling activities taking place in open-air, the courts are usually indoor places of absolute decorum, solemnity, restricted movement, order, formal protocols and established procedures.

Are Press Activities Permitted in the Courtroom?

It is a given that the courtroom is a special place for the conducting of special business of judicial proceedings. This business does not include media activities such as the conducting of press interviews whether by legal practitioners present or other members of the public present in court. The courtroom is not an extension of the pressroom for media activities. It is immaterial that the judge is absent in the courtroom. It is not only the presence of the judge that commands the solemnity and decorum which the court atmosphere is known for. Otherwise, in the absence of a judge, commercial activities can as well be conducted in a courtroom as if in a market place. But as we have seen, the court is not a market square. The dignity of the court must be maintained by all and sundry always.

Part III of the Federal High Court Act provides for the “Sitting and Distribution of the Business” of court. Section 23 made reference to “every proceeding” in the Court and “all business” arising from such proceedings, and states that same must be “heard and disposed of by a single Judge.” There is nowhere under the Federal High Court Act where it was provided that the business of the court or proceedings shall include the business of the media or the grant of interview to the press.

Undoubtedly, the law permits media freedom for the reporting of judicial proceedings in public interest, and in order to ensure transparency, accountability, and public trust in the judicial system. https://stephenlegal.ng/justice-beyond-media-trial-was-orient-petroleum-md-jailed-for-14-years-for-n25-billion-fraud/ However, this freedom is one that must be exercised within the bounds of law and order. At most, media interviews may be conducted outside the courtroom in an area designated for that purpose. This is to avoid any unnecessary disruptions of court proceedings or incidents capable of undermining the dignity of the court. The court is a hallowed temple of justice. It is not a place where anything goes. Given the nature of the court, if at any occasion any form of media interview is to be conducted in the courtroom, the prior approval of the judge or court registrars must be formally sought and obtained.

Conclusion

In the case of Sowore, the Learned Senior Advocate who is a minister in the temple of justice was within his rights and duty to preserve the integrity and dignity of that temple by preventing other worshippers like Sowore and the press members from desecrating it.

Law enforcement should be shared responsibly between federal and state governments, writes Monday Phyllis Ekpe

Late last month, during an interfaith breaking of fast at the Presidential Villa, Abuja, President Bola Tinubu let out a plea directed at his guests, primarily members of the Nigerian Senate. “We are facing terrorism, banditry, and insurgency. But we will never fail to make a right response to this cause. What I will ask for tonight is for you to start thinking of how best to amend the constitution to incorporate the state police for us to secure our country, take over our forests from marauders, and free our children from fear….” Stating the obvious and expecting nothing less than a speedy compliance.

It is for decency that one would not tag what transpired between the president and senators as an instruction from someone who has had virtually all his legislative prayers granted without objections of any sort from those whose duty it is to ensure that the first arm of government, with the numerous statutory edges it has over the other two, does not become absolutely self-reporting. No effort is being made here to begrudge President Tinubu what appears to be his unprecedented luck or favour with this set of federal legislators who are wired to always view his intentions – stated or otherwise – as good enough for the country.

Now that Tinubu has publicly appealed to the Senator Godswill Akpabio-led Senate to make state police a constitutional reality, Nigerians who have been canvassing for it can go home, rejoice and sleep with the assurance that it’s a fait accompli. And those who are prone to worries can be concerned about the degree of intellectuality, practicality and pragmatism that’ll be invested in this potentially transformative and definitive legislation, especially in the chamber where the lawmakers will frame it. Politically, the president and his journeymen and women have a lot to gain if states are allowed to legally own and operate the police. They belong to the clan of the political elite who love to be seen as progressives and who have for decades promoted concepts like restructuring, true federalism and fiscal federalism. The idea of state police has always been on that exotic list. But then, all those over-romanticised terms have problems with unambiguous definitions and operationalisations.

It is, therefore, unwise to follow the frenzy and rejoice that a long-sought law is underway. It’s in order, though, for people to be happy about this development. Sustainable security is arguably one area of our national life today that’s a quarter away from total failure. So, any major step towards thinking and acting outside the box or concretising enduring relevant aspirations should be embraced. However, the nation runs the risk of merely pursuing a theoretical posturing or half-baked reform instead of a workable, lasting answer to a protracted existential issue if not properly guided.

As Nigeria attempts to tinker with Section 214 of its constitution which brings all its policing apparatus under one national police force, it must engage the diverse arguments surrounding it. For the record, policing hadn’t always been this centralised. All through its various stages of political history, the country had been policed by agencies that didn’t have to take directives directly or indirectly from the centre. But all that changed in 1966 after the nation’s first military coup. Like many of the nation’s other components, the police fell to the overriding motivation of the adventurers in government which was to “unite” structures under one chain of command and control. Thus, police in Nigeria became a colossus watching over everyone via the stroke of the Forces Acts (Amendment) Decree of 1966.    

And now, precisely six decades after, a major surgery is being prepared to alter that arrangement. Whoever thinks we should maintain the status quo is either an unshakable or a deluded optimist. For, nothing exemplifies our dire need of security more than the current numbing of national consciousness to news of abductions, violence, bloodshed, and unconscionable, multiple and mass murders. Without external aggression and wars, this country has in recent times lost more of its citizens to crimes and criminalities that border of inept or disabled policing than any other causes in its existence.

And those who uphold the centralisation of the police do so for two main reasons. One, the fear that state governors would hijack this critical pillar of nationhood to pursue their own parochial interests. Two, the inability of most states to rise to the challenge of owning the police due to material, monetary and institutional constraints, a situation that can inexorably result in costly social disequilibrium around the country with the attendant grave consequences. These and more apprehensions expressed over the years can’t easily be discountenanced. But, curiously, the premises for their own rebuttal are inbuilt.

At the moment, governors in Nigeria are, without doubt, the undisputed principalities of their individual domains, sorry, states. In virtually all the states, the legislatures are firmly in their pockets. The judiciaries don’t fare better, sadly. Letting the chief executives have and hold their own instruments of coercion and law enforcement could be all that we need to further undermine our sovereignty and internal cohesion. Think of trying to cope with self-asserting despots all over the place. But then, successive presidents have also been accused of using the police to suppress dissenting voices and interests.

Lack of adequate resources in some states shouldn’t also be a prime concern. Many state governments have already established some forms of policing entities, anyway. South West formed “Amotekun” in 2020. Kano has “Hisbah” to implement Shariah law. Benue launched Civil Protection Guards in 2024. Zamfara had done so earlier that year when it instituted Community Protection Guards. And others. Even now, most governors donate heavily to the police to enhance their capacities.

Somehow, I wish the president’s request had come earlier than it did, considering the present reality which prioritises the political survival of the legislators over critical assignments like this proposed amendment. Fundamental to the matter at hand are: lines between federal and state policing responsibilities, areas of collaboration, maintenance of standards, consistent monitoring and more. The argument that state police will bring law administration closer to the people to ensure adequate, rapid response isn’t completely unimpeachable. In a nation where citizenship is still vulnerable to the indigene/settler dichotomy, state police can degenerate to tools for entrenching ethnic and religious biases.

Surely, decentralised policing isn’t perfect anywhere. Not in Brazil where the state-level military police sometimes fall short of set rules. Not in India where central paramilitary formations work with state police. Not even in the United States where thousands of local security agencies collaborate with their federal counterparts. But they keep pushing forward against the odds. The least we can do now is move towards change, having stood on the same spot for too long with clear waning chances of winning.

Ekpe, PhD, is a member of THISDAY Editorial Board

X: @monday_ekpe2

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

A behavioral, developmental and child/young persons care professional, Kemi Olokode-Ayelabola has condemned in its strongest term the reported incidents of violence against women and girls during a recent cultural festival in Ozoro, Delta State, describing the incident as barbaric and grave violation of safety and dignity.

In a statement she personally signed and made available to journalists, she stated that the video evidence circulating widely on social media tragically exposed women and girls being harassed, chased and assaulted in public, raising concerns over the failure to guarantee protection in communal spaces.

Kemi who is also the Chairperson and Conve­ner of Asiwaju Renewed Hope (ARH’27) in the forthcoming 2027 Presidential election decried attempts in some quarters to deflate the incidents or interpret them as part of cultural practices, stressing that violence against women and girls must not be trivialised or justified under any circumstance and no matter those involved.

She added that the disturbing and heartbreaking incident reflects deeper systemic issues of gender-based violence, where harmful norms, silence and weak enforcement enable such abuses to persist.

She further referenced her 2025 commendation for the Nigerian Senate under the leadership of His Excellency Godswil Akpabio for passing a Bill prescribing life imprisonment for anyone, male or female found guilty of sexually abusing minors adding that this could be the best time to put such legislation to action so as to creating an environment that can stem the rising tide of child sexual abuse across Nigeria.

She added that no cultural festival or traditional belief should be used to excuse or conceal violence, calling for all individuals involved to be identified and prosecuted through a transparent process.

Kemi also urged the Delta State Governor, Sheriff Oborevwori, to take immediate action by directing security agencies to apprehend and prosecute perpetrators, while ensuring public disclosure of steps taken, including arrests and prosecution outcomes. She also called for accountability from security agencies over alleged lapses that allowed the incidents to occur without timely intervention, noting that their mandate should include proactive measures to prevent harm against vulnerable segments of the society.

She said while it is not a bad idea to give space to custodians of tradition and culture to have their ways in enjoying what is constitutionally accepted, she however cautioned that there must be restraint.

Her statement reads partly, “I am still in shock to see that what was actually designed to be a day of colour, rhythm and ancestral pride. Instead, Thursday, March 19, 2026, has been etched into the collective memory of Ozoro Kingdom as a day of fear, violation and institutional reckoning, a day when a cultural celebration allegedly devolved into what residents now describe, in hushed tones, as a “festival of rape.”

“This is barbaric and a grave violation of safety and dignity. It is disheartening that young people, who should represent the pride and future of our society, would engage in acts that degrade and violate the dignity of women, our mothers and sisters for just no cause.

“In Oramudu Quarters, the epicentre of the chaos, the lines between festivity and criminality blurred with terrifying speed. What should have been an expression of heritage became, according to multiple accounts, a coordinated assault on women — a breakdown not only of order, but of the very cultural codes the festival was meant to uphold.

“My appeal therefore goes to the Federal Ministry of Women Affairs and the Delta State Ministry of Women Affairs to provide probono support for affected women and girls, including access to medical care, psychosocial services, legal assistance and safe reporting channels. The need for sustained efforts to address gaps in safeguarding women and girls in public and cultural spaces must never be lowered. Meanwhile, this is also a wake up call for authorities and community leaders in Ozoro Kingdom to review practices that may endanger women. The dignity of women must always be honored, protected and not violated under any guise.”