I have followed Nigerian politics and public affairs long enough to know that no country survives when its citizens begin to believe that justice depends on who you are, where you come from, or whose side you are on. Once people start feeling that the law has favourites, trust in the state begins to die quietly.
Lately, I have found myself asking a troubling question: are we truly operating one justice system in Nigeria, or have we settled into an arrangement where there is one law for some people and another for others?
The recent debate around the treatment of former Kaduna State Governor Nasir El Rufai and political aide Lere Olayinka once again brings this question to the surface.
Many Nigerians are asking why similar actions seem to attract different reactions from the authorities, depending on who is involved. Whether one agrees with either man politically is not even the issue. The real issue is consistency. A country cannot survive on selective outrage and selective justice.
This feeling is not new. We have seen it before.
I still remember how the cases of Nnamdi Kanu and Sunday Igboho opened a deep wound in the national conversation. Many Nigerians looked at both men and wondered why the state appeared to respond so differently.
Kanu was extraordinarily extradited to Nigeria under controversial circumstances and has been sentenced to life in prison. Igboho, on the other hand, after fleeing the country and facing legal troubles in the Benin Republic, eventually regained freedom of movement.
Yes, there are legal differences between the two cases. Government supporters will argue that Kanu was already facing charges and had jumped bail, while Igboho’s circumstances involved another country’s legal system. But perception matters in governance.
Millions of Nigerians saw one man treated with relentless force while another appeared to have a softer landing. In politics, perception can be as powerful as reality.
I recently watched the controversy around the AI-generated fake audio of President Bola Tinubu with deep concern. What troubled me was not only the fake content itself but also the state’s response to it.
Bayo Onanuga, the presidential spokesman, told Nigerians publicly that Ifechukwu Dennis had been arrested as the “originator” of the fake voice. Yet online discussions and independent reviews around the case appeared to suggest a more complicated story about who created the content, who merely shared it, and how investigators arrived at their conclusions. Instead of clarity, Nigerians were left with confusion and unanswered questions.
In a country already struggling with trust deficits, selective transparency only deepens suspicion. If the government wants citizens to trust law enforcement, then investigations must be thorough, evidence-based, and transparently explained. Justice cannot look hurried when politics are involved and careful only when ordinary citizens are in the dock.
Then there is the question that many people are afraid to discuss openly. How exactly does the Nigerian state treat suspected IPOB or ESN members compared to bandits and Boko Haram fighters?
I ask this question carefully because security matters are serious. But I also ask it honestly.
For years, we watched political leaders and negotiators describe armed bandits as “our brothers” and urge dialogue with them. We watched government programmes rehabilitate so-called ‘repentant’ Boko Haram fighters under deradicalisation schemes. Some were reintegrated into society after counselling and vocational training.
Meanwhile, many communities in the North East that suffered terrible violence from these same groups struggled to understand why people linked to mass killings appeared to be receiving second chances.
At the same time, the language used for suspected IPOB or ESN members has mostly been forceful and uncompromising. Military operations intensified in the South East. Arrests increased.
Entire communities often complain of raids and collective punishment. Whether these complaints are always true or exaggerated is another debate. But the perception remains that the Nigerian state negotiates with some armed groups while crushing others.
This is where the danger lies.
No nation can sustainably run a justice system that citizens believe is selective. It may survive for a while, but resentment quietly gathers underneath. People begin to retreat into ethnic and regional identities because they no longer trust national institutions to protect them fairly. Citizens stop seeing themselves as Nigerians first. They begin to think in terms of “our people” and “their people”.
That is a dangerous place for a fragile country.
The truth is simple. Justice must not only be done, but it must also be seen to be done. If bandits deserve rehabilitation after surrender, then there should be transparent standards for everyone.
If separatist agitators deserve prosecution, then the same seriousness should apply to politicians and powerful people accused of incitement or violence. If cybercrime laws are used against ordinary citizens and journalists, then politically connected figures should not suddenly become untouchable.
The law loses moral authority when it appears to bend for the powerful and harden for the weak.
I am not arguing that every case is the same. They are not. Different crimes require different legal responses. National security threats are complex. But equal justice does not mean identical treatment. It means fairness, consistency, and transparency in how decisions are made.
What Nigerians want is not perfection. We want confidence that the state is not playing favourites.
Because the day citizens finally conclude that justice in Nigeria depends on tribe, power, religion, or political usefulness is the day many will stop believing in the Nigerian project itself.
And once trust in justice collapses, rebuilding it becomes harder than fighting any insurgency.
– Young Ozogwu is an Abuja-based public commentator and media executive. You can contact him at [email protected]
