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The Nigeria Police Force is in the news again. It is not for reasons that inspire confidence. There are no laurels here, no tales of professionalism or public service. What has emerged instead is a grim story that strikes at the heart of justice and unsettles the conscience of a nation.
In Effurun, the unthinkable happened. A policeman, sworn to uphold the law, chose to discard it. In full public view, with no threat to his life and no legal justification, he executed a suspect who had already been arrested, restrained, and rendered harmless.
The victim, Mene Ogidi, had gone to a motor park to collect a parcel. Suspicion greeted the package, and bystanders compelled him to open it. Inside was a firearm with live ammunition. Acting responsibly, those present apprehended him and called the police. When officers arrived, the suspect, with his hands bound behind him, was handed over without resistance. What followed should never happen in a society governed by law.
Sensing danger, the young man pleaded to be taken to the station. He offered to cooperate, to explain, to name those involved. He insisted he had been deceived into collecting the parcel. But there was no patience for process, no interest in truth, no regard for justice, no regard for human life.
One officer, ASP Nuhu Usman, stepped forward. There was no courtroom, no judge, no due process. It was only a gun and a suspicious decision. In seconds, the police officer replaced the law by impulse. Shots rang out. A restrained suspect fell. And with him fell a piece of Nigeria’s already fragile justice system.
The crowd froze. Shock rippled outward. Some people screamed; others turned away. Many of those around stood rooted, grappling with what they had witnessed: a citizen killed in cold blood by an agent of the state.
What lingered when this tragedy happened and what lingers are not just the lifeless body on the ground that day and in the mortuary at present. What lingers is a heavier truth, which is the realisation that justice has been by-passed, that fear has replaced trust, and that the line between law enforcement and lawlessness has been erased by an officer of the law.
In Nigeria, where the rule of law is meant to shield the weak and restrain the powerful, that moment in Effurun was a rupture. It summoned memories of the dark era of the Special Anti-Robbery Squad (SARS), when brutality, extrajudicial killings, and official impunity provoked nationwide outrage – “EndSARS” protest. It was a tragic reminder that the ghosts of that era still linger.
This is not an isolated horror. Nigeria has seen this script before. In the infamous Apo Six Killings in Abuja some years ago, innocent young men were executed and falsely labeled criminals. The truth eventually came out that it was an extrajudicial killing by the police. In 2009, Mohammed Yusuf, then leader of the insurgent Boko Haram, who was captured alive by the military and handed over to the police, died in suspicious manner in custody. His death took with him critical truths that might have reshaped Nigeria’s fight against insurgency. Each case follows a familiar pattern: suspicion, custody, execution, and then a scramble to manage public outrage.
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The killing of Ogidi is not just another statistic. It is a direct assault on the idea of justice, a call to question about people we have employed to protect life and property. When those entrusted with enforcing the law begin to dispense death without trial or behave in a way that does not differentiate them from criminals, society itself begins to slide toward anarchy.
Nigeria’s laws are clear. The 1999 Constitution guarantees the right to life and the presumption of innocence. The accused is innocent until proven guilty. The Administration of Criminal Justice Act demands due process. The process is simple: Investigate a suspect, put him or her on trial and the court should find him or her guilty or otherwise. These are not decorative provisions. They are the pillars of civilisation. To ignore them is to declare that power outranks justice, that the gun overrides the law.
It is encouraging that the police authorities have moved to dismiss from the force as well as promised to prosecute those involved. That is only the beginning. Accountability must be thorough, transparent, and uncompromising. Nigerians deserve answers: Who were the officers in the team? Who authorised the operation? Why did no one in the police team intervene when the policeman fired the first shot? What was being silenced by that fatal act? What are the police’s findings so far?
Justice cannot be selective or symbolic. The full chain of responsibility must evolve. Names of all those involved must be revealed. Those involved must be tried and promptly too. If found guilty, they must be punished under the law. Anything less would signal that impunity still thrives beneath the surface.
Extrajudicial killings do more than end lives. They destroy evidence. A dead suspect tells no story, names no accomplices, reveals no networks. When a suspect is killed the truth is buried with him or her. It raises an unavoidable question: what was the officer trying to conceal? Beyond that, such acts corrode public trust. Citizens would fear the police cannot cooperate with them. A force that inspires fear instead of confidence becomes ineffective at best and dangerous at worst.
The problem is also systemic. The sight of armed officers operating in plain clothes, indistinguishable from criminals, speaks to a deeper failure of discipline and identity. Policing is not a casual enterprise. It demands structure, visibility, and accountability. A uniform is not just attire. A uniform is a symbol of order.
Training in the police, too, must be addressed. The casual brandishing of firearms by police officers, pointing at motorists, cyclists, and people they want to talk to, suggests a dangerous misunderstanding of their role. Weapons are not tools of intimidation. Weapons are instruments of last resort. Regulations like Police Order 237 exist for a reason. They are there to define when force is justified. Clearly, those rules are either ignored or not understood.
What happened in Effurun has, in effect, put the police on trial. A badge represents public trust. A gun, in the hands of a policeman, is a public responsibility. When both are abused, the Social Contract is fractured. We must say, and clearly too, that there can be no ambiguity in response. Nigerians cannot mourn and move on. Justice must be pursued and seen to be pursued. The killing of Ogidi must be called what it is: Murder.
Those responsible for the Effurun assassination of a Nigerian by a policeman are not faceless “unknown gunmen.” They are known. And they must face the full weight of the law under provisions such as Section 316 of the Criminal Code. Anything less would send a dangerous message.
The message it will send is this: That in Nigeria, a uniform can replace a courtroom, and a bullet can stand in for a verdict. It will mean that in a country, where the rule of law is supposed to be in place, those enforcing the law are implementing rule of the jungle and that government has failed in its primary constitutional role of ensuring the security and welfare of the people.
