There is something far more dangerous than banditry in our forests and kidnapping on our highways. It is the silent, polished crime happening behind the oak-paneled courtrooms of Nigeria. It is the smiling face of a judge who has traded his conscience for a brown envelope. It is the silk-wrapped arrogance of a lawyer who now makes his living not from defending the innocent but from perverting justice. This is Nigeria’s new civil war—a war waged not with guns but with gavels.
How did we get here? Where else in the world do judges sit over cases they have already sold, while lawyers draft legal arguments not for the court, but for bribes? Where else is justice so bastardized that those who dare to speak the truth are punished for contempt, while those who auction judgments are garlanded as “My Lord”?
Even the politicians, the most notorious wreckers of society, now tremble before the judiciary. Not out of respect, but fear—fear that one judge’s signature can erase elections, destroy legacies, or declare the dead as winners. The judiciary is no longer a separate arm of government in Nigeria; it is the shadow emperor. And like all emperors, it demands loyalty, not to the Constitution, but to the cartel.
What we are witnessing is not corruption—it is judicial conquest. A conquest where the law no longer serves the people but enslaves them. A conquest where judgments are passed, not in the courtroom, but in the corridors of power and the vaults of banks. A conquest where the very soul of justice is auctioned to the highest bidder, while the poor, the innocent, and the hopeful are trampled like vermin.
Our fellow citizens killed by kidnappers and herdsmen, our compatriots watching their children go to bed hungry, the sick who cannot afford a single drug, classrooms without teachers or equipment, and roads that have turned into death traps–these tragedies shouldn’t have happened. They are the direct consequences of a nation conquered not by foreign invaders but by judicial gangsters. When justice is broken, everything else falls apart.
Travel across Nigeria. Look around at the palatial homes in exclusive neighborhoods, the marble-floor offices in Abuja and Lagos, the latest bulletproof SUVs, and European sports cars gliding over cratered roads. Then, walk into the first-class lounge at the airport or board an international flight—take a moment to ask: Who are these people? What do they do for a living? You’ll find they’re not our professors, not our engineers, not our innovators or inventors. No, it is the new emperors of Nigeria—participants in the judicial conquest. Lawyers, judges, fixers, court clerks-turned-billionaires. Fearlessly, they’re parading their newfound treasure and nobility in a broken republic.
The silence has been too long, and too many are afraid to speak. But what do I do? Join the terrified public? Then, what will I tell Him who gave me my voice? What will I say to my father in his grave—the man who spent all he had to give me an education—if I choose silence over truth? Shall I keep quiet for fear of those who, by the weight of their atrocities, should be running for their lives whenever the truth is aired? No. I will not.
And let me say this with the burden of fairness: I’m sorry I have to say this painful truth, because amid all this decay, there are still a few good lawyers and judges—men and women of honor caught in a rotten system they can’t reform alone. But even their silence is being weaponized against them. Their courage must rise now more than ever because history teaches us that every fallen great civilization collapsed from within—once their judicial systems were sold to the dogs.
Let the world not be deceived. Nigeria’s greatest tragedy is not poverty. It is not insecurity. It is not even political corruption—it is the weaponization of the judiciary against its own people.
No society survives long when its courts become crime scenes. No republic thrives when its judges become executioners (killers) of truth. And no nation has a future when its Constitution becomes a napkin for thieves in silk.
Until we reclaim the judiciary, Nigeria will remain a conquered people—not by colonizers, but by those sworn to protect them. May the God hear our cries.
