by Mohammed Bello Doka
24 March, 2026
Where is the court order? This question, shouted with justified anger by Abubakar Malami, SAN, former Attorney‑General of the Federation, during an afternoon stand‑off with operatives of the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC) at his Maitama residence in Abuja on March 23, 2026, should echo across every corner of this country. It is not merely a rhetorical demand from a single citizen — it is the rallying cry of millions of Nigerians who are simultaneously under siege from insecurity, poverty, illiteracy and subjected to state instruments that trample due process while aiming their fire at dissent rather than deliver justice.
That afternoon, as cameras rolled and social media lit up with video of the confrontation, Malami repeatedly asked, “Where is your court order? He challenged the operatives to produce a lawful mandate for their actions, emphasizing that the interim forfeiture order the EFCC claimed to be acting on had long expired and was not specific enough to authorize the invasion and marking of his properties. “This matter is already pending in court. Show me where it is stated that you have the authority to be here,” he demanded. And yet no valid, subsisting court order was presented.
This was not a petty quarrel between a powerful politician and prosecutors. It was a vivid, distressing display of a state increasingly willing to use its coercive apparatus not to protect citizens, but to intimidate and suppress those it disagrees with. The official response from Malami’s office catalogues a series of constitutional violations — from a forceful occupation of private residences and offices without lawful basis, to the arrest of two people during the invasion, all occurring without a valid court order in hand.
The statement is unambiguous: “The interim forfeiture order relied upon by the EFCC has elapsed. The ex parte order granted on January 6, 2026, was expressly time‑bound for a period of 14 days, which had already elapsed. That order has since lapsed and cannot, under any stretch of the law, justify the EFCC’s actions today.” Yet the raid went ahead. The operation — heavily armed, sudden, and apparently timed minutes after a solidarity visit to Malami by former Vice President Atiku Abubakar — was portrayed as a lawful anti‑corruption enforcement action. In reality, it laid bare a chilling pattern: institutional power wielded to silence political actors and critics rather than uphold fundamental legal norms.
Malami’s condemnation resonates because it shows that even the powerful are not safe when the instruments of the state are repurposed for political signaling rather than justice. As Albert Venn Dicey, the eminent British jurist credited with popularizing the modern concept of the rule of law, put it: “no man is punishable or can be lawfully made to suffer in body or goods except for a distinct breach of law established in the ordinary legal manner before the ordinary Courts of the land.” His principle insisted that legal sanctions and actions must flow from established law and ordinary judicial processes; anything less corrodes the very foundations of a constitutional system.
And as Lon L. Fuller, the noted legal philosopher, observed regarding genuine law and legality: “When a system calling itself law is predicated upon a general disregard by judges of the terms of the laws they purport to enforce... which no one dares challenge… it is not hard for me to deny to it the name of law.” Fuller’s insight underscores that when due process is sidestepped and legal norms hollowed out by executive action, the label of “law” is little more than a veneer.
That accusation — that the state is operating outside the discipline of lawful process — is serious. But it is not outlandish in a Nigeria where ordinary citizens face daily threats far graver than political grandstanding — and where the response from those at the helm has ranged from muted to indifferent.
Consider what Nigerians endured throughout March 2026 alone. This very month, Nigeria has seen a devastating surge in violent attacks by armed groups, including bandits and Boko Haram/ISWAP insurgents, yet the government’s response has been slow and often superficial.
On March 23, 2026, suspected bandits detonated explosives and bombed a vital bridge in Borgu Local Government Area, Niger State, cutting off key transport links between communities such as Wawa, Luma, Babanna, and Agwara. Residents reported that at least eight people were killed after a vehicle struck an improvised explosive device (IED) planted near the destroyed bridge — a lifeline for traders and commuters linking local markets. The Niger State Police Command confirmed that the explosion was caused by IEDs and that investigations were ongoing, yet since, there has been little traction or national urgency in addressing the broader security collapse this reflects.
Just weeks prior, three suspected suicide bombings struck Maiduguri, Borno State, hitting crowded civilian targets and leaving dozens dead and over a hundred injured. In the same period, Boko Haram and the Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP) staged deadly attacks on military bases in Borno and Yobe States, killing multiple soldiers and at times overrunning outposts. Across 34 states this past months, reports indicate there have been more than 130 terror attacks, illustrating that no region is immune from violence. The strategic evolution of these groups — using IEDs, striking infrastructure, and attacking both military and civilian targets — has made Nigeria one of the most terror‑impacted countries in the world in early 2026.
This is the context in which the question “Where is the court order?” must be understood. While Nigerians are under constant threat of violence — losing lives, homes, and economic opportunities — the apparatus of the state seems far more alert and willing to deploy force against citizens who raise their voices in protest or criticism. National security has become reactive rather than preventive; political vendettas are pursued with vigor, while the security needs of communities are left to prospects of prayer and vigilante efforts.
These are not isolated data points. They form a distressing pattern:
Civilians killed, infrastructure destroyed, livelihoods disrupted — with little strategic government response.
Military officials reporting casualties and bases overrun — with scant accountability for planning failures.
A nation’s citizens increasingly living in fear, yet political dissent being framed as the primary threat by elements of the state.
Legal theory reminds us why this matters. Dicey’s formulation of the rule of law emphasized not only that government officials must be subject to law just as private citizens are, but that individual rights are anchored in law enforced by impartial courts. When that symmetry is lost, the very concept of justice — and the legitimacy of governance — is imperiled.
Yet the administration in power — under President Bola Tinubu — has been slow to acknowledge the growing insecurity and, where it does respond, often frames dissent as disloyalty rather than legitimate critique. When citizens ask for security for their families or accountability from their leaders, too often the reply is force, not empathy; intimidation, not reform.
There is a profound moral crisis at work here. A nation that cannot defend its people from terror cannot call itself secure. A government that prioritizes the silencing of critics over the safety of communities cannot claim to be committed to justice. And a state that uses law enforcement as a cudgel rather than a conduit for fairness is a state in peril.
So I repeat: Where is the court order? Not just in the narrow legal sense that Abubakar Malami demanded on that fateful afternoon in Maitama — but in the broader moral and constitutional order that Nigerians are being denied daily.
If we do not demand answers, if we allow fear to replace accountability, then the Nigeria we once hoped to build will be lost in the fog of violence, impunity, and silence. And when history looks back at this moment, it must record not only the failings of insurgents abroad, but the abdication of leadership at home.
We can — and must — do better.
Mohammed Bello Doka can be reached via [email protected]
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