The controversy surrounding Senator Francis Fadahunsi is about more than one politician. It raises an old and uncomfortable question: are Nigeria’s law enforcement institutions applying one standard to government critics and another to those in power?
Justice is often described as blind.
In every constitutional democracy, however, citizens watch closely to see where it chooses to look.
That scrutiny has returned with the controversy surrounding Senator Francis Fadahunsi of Osun East. A viral video allegedly captured him making comments interpreted as encouraging violence against supporters of the Accord Party ahead of the Osun governorship election. Fadahunsi has rejected that interpretation, insisting his remarks have been taken out of context and distorted. The allegation nevertheless prompted the Osun State Government to seek a court order directing the Inspector-General of Police and the Commissioner of Police in the state to investigate him. A separate criminal complaint before a Magistrate Court in Abuja produced a similar directive. The police have since questioned the senator before releasing him while investigations continue.
On its face, this is exactly how the criminal justice process should work. An allegation is made. It is investigated. The suspect is heard. Evidence is assessed before any decision is taken.
Yet the public conversation has travelled well beyond the facts of the Fadahunsi case.
It now centres on whether the Nigerian state responds with the same urgency whenever politically influential figures find themselves at the centre of criminal allegations.
That concern lies at the heart of Onikepo Braithwaite’s recent essay, “Pi Pa Ni O: The Dangers of a Selective Justice System.” Her argument is not confined to one senator or one political party. She warns that confidence in the rule of law begins to erode whenever citizens conclude that enforcement depends less on the alleged conduct than on the identity of the person involved.
History offers many examples of this perception.
Government critics often discover that investigations move with remarkable speed once their statements attract official attention. Security agencies issue invitations within hours. Public statements follow. Investigations become front-page news.
When similar allegations involve politically connected figures, events can unfold very differently. Files appear to move more slowly. Public communication becomes noticeably restrained. Institutions that ordinarily respond with confidence suddenly speak with unusual caution.
Whether that perception is entirely fair is almost beside the point.
Public confidence in law enforcement depends as much on consistency as it does on legality. Once citizens begin to believe that political affiliation influences the speed or intensity of official action, every subsequent investigation is viewed through that lens.
Braithwaite illustrates this concern by contrasting the official response to former Kaduna State Governor Nasir El-Rufai with the handling of other politically sensitive cases. Her broader point deserves careful consideration. Equality before the law is measured not by what legislation promises but by how institutions behave when confronted with difficult or politically inconvenient cases.
No serious observer should argue that Senator Fadahunsi ought to be presumed guilty.
The opposite is true.
His denial deserves to be examined alongside every available piece of evidence. The authenticity of the recording should be established. Its complete context should be scrutinised. Witnesses should be interviewed. If the evidence supports criminal liability, the law should take its course. If it does not, the investigation should make that equally clear.
Due process exists precisely to separate allegation from proof.
The issue is whether that same process is applied with equal determination regardless of who occupies the witness chair.
The Constitution does not create separate standards for ruling party politicians, opposition figures, former governors or ordinary citizens. The Criminal Code and the Penal Code do not distinguish between influential defendants and anonymous ones. Neither should those entrusted with enforcing them.
That principle appears obvious until politics intervenes.
Once citizens begin to suspect that proximity to power influences official decisions, distrust spreads well beyond any single investigation. Each arrest invites comparison with an earlier case. Each decision not to prosecute becomes evidence of favouritism. Institutions gradually lose the presumption of impartiality on which their authority depends.
Repairing that loss is far more difficult than enforcing the law in the first place.
This is why consistency matters so profoundly.
It is not enough for justice to be done eventually. Citizens must also recognise a pattern of fairness that survives changes in government, political alliances and public sentiment. A legal system earns legitimacy when its response to comparable allegations remains broadly comparable, irrespective of the personalities involved.
The Fadahunsi investigation provides another opportunity to demonstrate that principle.
Conduct the investigation thoroughly.
Allow the evidence—not politics—to determine the outcome.
Explain the decision when the investigation concludes.
Then apply exactly the same approach to the next politically sensitive case, regardless of whose interests are affected.
That is the standard by which the public measures the credibility of law enforcement.
Braithwaite’s article ultimately asks a question that extends beyond Senator Fadahunsi or any other public figure.
Can Nigerians still assume that the law treats comparable conduct in comparable ways?
Until state institutions answer that question consistently through their actions rather than their assurances, accusations of selective justice will remain difficult to dismiss—not because they have been proved, but because they continue to appear plausible.
