In a landmark ruling that has reverberated across Nigeria’s political landscape, the Kaduna State High Court has struck down an audacious attempt by the state’s Commissioner of Police to suspend all political gatherings under the guise of maintaining public order. The judgment, delivered by Hon. Justice Murtala J. Zubairu, is more than a legal triumph — it is a moral renaissance for a democracy teetering between liberty and authoritarian impulse.
The Commissioner of Police, acting in concert with what analysts describe as a broader effort by the Kaduna State Government to suffocate dissent, filed a suit seeking to halt all political meetings, rallies, and assemblies by opposition parties — notably the African Democratic Congress (ADC) and the Social Democratic Party (SDP). The court, in a decisive blow to state overreach, declared the move unconstitutional, unlawful, and a gross abuse of power.
Justice Zubairu’s judgment was a thunderclap — echoing the principles of liberty enshrined in the Nigerian Constitution. He reminded the police and, by extension, the government, that their role is not to ban democratic expression but to protect it. In his words and spirit, the judgment reaffirmed Section 40 of the 1999 Constitution: the right of every citizen to assemble freely and associate for political purposes. The court ruled that the police, by suspending lawful gatherings, had breached their statutory duty under Sections 4, 83, and 84 of the Police Act 2020.
This was not merely a legal pronouncement; it was a moral reckoning. It exposed the creeping pattern of state-sanctioned intimidation against opposition voices — a pattern that has, over the years, transformed Nigeria’s political field into a theatre of fear and silence.
Across the world, democracies rise or fall not by the ballot alone, but by the unseen strength of institutions that dare to say “no” to the excesses of power. When the Indian Supreme Court struck down Indira Gandhi’s Emergency-era decrees in the 1970s, it rekindled public faith in the rule of law. When the U.S. Supreme Court ruled in New York Times Co. v. United States (1971) — the Pentagon Papers case — it did not merely defend free press; it protected the conscience of democracy. Justice Zubairu’s decision stands in this noble lineage — a judicial uprising against the arrogance of force.
The Kaduna Police, in a chilling display of political bias, had justified their ban by citing “intelligence reports” that opposition gatherings might spark violence. But as the court noted, intelligence without integrity is manipulation. The SDP had, in fact, warned the police weeks earlier about the recruitment of 4,000 thugs by the ruling party — a warning ignored. When violence eventually erupted on August 30, the victims were not the perpetrators. Yet the victims became the accused, and the accuser became the enforcer.
Herein lies the dangerous logic of power: when truth is inconvenient, it is silenced; when justice is delayed, it is denied. The state, emboldened by impunity, sought to weaponize law enforcement against democracy itself. But this time, the court drew the line.
In awarding ₦15 million in damages to the SDP, the Court did more than compensate — it punished impunity and restored dignity. The ruling ordered the police to investigate their own failures and report to the Attorney-General of Kaduna State within 60 days. It was a stinging reminder that accountability begins at home.
Political observers see this case as a mirror reflecting Nigeria’s deeper malaise: the conversion of public institutions into private political tools. From the misuse of the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC) to selective arrests of activists, the pattern is familiar — dissent becomes a crime, loyalty a currency. In Kaduna, the pattern found judicial resistance.
In the law of politics, fear is both an instrument and an infection. When leaders govern through fear, it breeds silence; when citizens act in fear, democracy decays. What happened in Kaduna was an attempt to institutionalize fear — to freeze political activity, to erase opposition visibility, and to rewrite the rules of engagement. The court’s ruling, therefore, is not just about SDP’s right to gather — it is about the nation’s right to breathe.
From Lagos to Berlin, from Pretoria to Washington, history teaches that societies thrive when the governed can speak without fear of reprisal. The fall of apartheid in South Africa began not with bullets, but with voices — stubborn, unrelenting voices that refused to be silenced. Nelson Mandela once said that “to deny people their human rights is to challenge their very humanity.” In Kaduna, the court restored that humanity.
The judgment has exposed what political analysts describe as an “unofficial state policy” — the gradual criminalization of opposition politics in Nigeria. Whether in Rivers, Zamfara, or Kaduna, the tactics are strikingly similar: security agencies are used to clamp down on political gatherings, intimidate dissenters, and issue arbitrary bans, all in the name of peace and security. But peace built on silence is tyranny by another name.
Political philosophers like Alexis de Tocqueville warned centuries ago that “the health of a democratic society may be measured by the quality of functions performed by private citizens.” The SDP’s courage to fight this battle — and win — reflects the resilience of Nigeria’s democratic soul, even as the state machinery bends toward authoritarian tendencies.
The Kaduna judgment is more than a legal document; it is a declaration that the machinery of fear has limits. It signals to the ruling elite that Nigeria’s democracy, though battered, is not broken — that the courts remain the last fortress of the free.
And perhaps most powerfully, it rekindles hope — that someday, in the contest between power and principle, it is principle that will prevail.
Because every democracy, no matter how fragile, depends not on the might of rulers, but on the courage of those who dare to dissent.
And on this day in Kaduna, dissent won.