THE JUDICIARY: WIELDING POWER OF LIFE AND DEATH

What is unfolding in Nigeria’s judiciary today is more insidious than the Italian mafia and the Colombian drug cartels combined. These criminal organizations, as ruthless and powerful as they are, still operate outside the law. But what happens when the very institution meant to uphold justice—the judiciary itself—becomes the enforcer of oppression? When the halls where life and death are decided turn into a marketplace where justice is auctioned to the highest bidder? What do we do when those in black robes, sworn to interpret and protect the law, become the masterminds of impunity?  

For the sake of convenience, I could have chosen the path most people take: mind my own business. After all, in this part of the world, silence is not just encouraged—it is enforced. The culture of looking away, of pretending not to see, has been ingrained in us as a survival mechanism. Speak out, and you become a target. Challenge the powerful, and you risk everything. But if we all mind our business, who will confront this monster? Who will take the risk to stop this relentless march of injustice?  

The greatest danger is not just the vast reach or its unchecked power—it is that it controls the very machinery of justice itself. There is no appeal, no higher authority to intervene. It holds the power to determine life or death, freedom or captivity, prosperity or ruin. How do you fight a force that wields the law as its shield and the gavel as its weapon?  

I have personally experienced the stark contrast between a functional legal system and the lawlessness that defines Nigeria’s judiciary.  

In 2003, I filed my first major lawsuit in Boston, challenging the World Bank over the appropriation of my African Institute of Technology. The case was taken up pro bono by one of Boston’s largest law firms. For over a year and a half, I witnessed exemplary due process. Every document intended for filing was first sent to me for review, accompanied by detailed explanations. Nothing was filed without my explicit, written consent, ensuring that I fully understood and approved of every step taken in my case.  

Now compare that to my recent experiences in Nigeria.  

Late last year, my lawyer called me on a Friday, instructing me to sign a document ahead of a Monday court appearance. I insisted on reviewing it first. After much resistance, he finally sent it, and I was stunned. The document had nothing to do with my original position. It was a contract I had no prior knowledge of, designed to undo a document already in my favor.  

When I questioned the need for this new agreement, he admitted that my original document was a “game-changer” but claimed Section 83 of the Evidence Act barred its filing. I pointed to him another section of the law that allows for the late submission of crucial evidence, but instead of addressing my argument, he abruptly withdrew from my case.  

His misconduct did not end there. On Monday, without due notice, he stood up in open court and announced his withdrawal—violating attorney-client privilege and exposing confidential details of my case. In any serious jurisdiction, this would have led to disciplinary action. But in Nigeria, it is just another day in the judiciary.  

Recently, I discovered an even greater betrayal. This same lawyer had withdrawn from another case, leaving behind a file I had never reviewed. Inside, I found an affidavit I had signed in good faith—except it contained statements that were outright fabrications. I had been misled into signing a document that misrepresented my own case in court. He had invited me to court, presented the affidavit as routine, and rushed me to sign it, knowing I wouldn’t have time to scrutinize it. I was never given a copy before or after signing, leaving me unaware that I had unwittingly approved falsehoods.  

This is the upside-down reality of Nigeria’s judiciary—a system where lawyers manipulate their clients, due process is a mere formality, and the rule of law is subverted by those skilled in deception. In any functional legal system, a lawyer who fabricates statements in an affidavit or breaches client confidentiality would face severe consequences. In Nigeria, such misconduct is often tolerated, if not rewarded.  

And it does not stop at lawyers. Judges, who should serve as the final line of defense against injustice, have become willing accomplices. They suppress evidence, rule in favor of the highest bidder, and enable a system where the rich and powerful have complete immunity while the weak and vulnerable are left defenseless.  

The implications are catastrophic. A nation with a compromised judiciary has no future. Without an independent and ethical legal system, justice becomes a commodity for the highest bidder, reducing the rule of law to a brutal survival game where the powerful prey on the weak with impunity.  

Fully aware of the danger, I turned back to confront the One who set me on this path. I demanded answers. *Why can’t I be like everyone else? Why can’t I just mind my business and live in peace?* I have sacrificed much, endured much. Now, with my sights set on relocating to the U.S., I have the perfect excuse to walk away.  

But He answered me: *”If you stop, then what? And who else will stand? Have I not been with you all this time? Why do you still doubt?”*  

Then He reminded me: *”The oppressors may think they own their days, but the day of reckoning always comes. Those who stand and risk everything for justice carry the light that will overshadow the darkness.”*  

So, who am I to turn away now? Who am I to abandon this fight when I have come so far? Would I not be like those who serve only when it is convenient, who only fight when they stand to gain? And if I walk away, will I not be counted among the selfish—those who only plant where they will reap, those who defend justice only when their comfort is not at stake?  

No. That cannot be my story.  

I may leave this land, but I will not leave behind the truth. I will not be silenced, nor will I be counted among those who turned away in fear. If no one else will stand, then I will.  

Because justice—true justice—is not a matter of convenience.  

It is a calling, and I have answered.

 Basil Odilim, Abuja