By Chidi Odinkalu
In July 1977, the Organisation of African Unity adopted a Convention for the Elimination of Mercenarism in Africa. It offered a definition of a mercenary to include someone who “is motivated to take part in hostilities essentially by the desire for private gain and in fact is promised by or on behalf of a party to the conflict material compensation.” The drafters of the Convention for the Elimination of Mercenarism in Africa probably did not foresee that it would encompass the conduct of judges.
Yet, at the beginning of this month, the immediate past president of the Nigerian Bar Association, NBA, Olumide Akpata, took to the floor of the International Bar Association, IBA, conference in Paris, the capital of France, to invite the association to take an active interest in a new species of judicial subornation in Nigeria which can best be described as judicial mercenarism.
Carl
von Clausewitz, the Prussian General, is credited with the insight that war is
the continuation of policy by other means. The converse can also be true: that
policy and politics could also be war by other means. Private military
contractors, also known as mercenaries, are paid to fight in other people’s
wars.
Judicial officers are ordinarily not politicians. So, when they choose to immerse
themselves in the theatre of power politics, it is impossible to avoid the
conclusion that elements of mercenarism are involved.
This mercenarism can manifest
itself in the form of judicial fornication, soliciting, or contumeliousness.
Let’s begin with judicial fornication. In his memoir, The Accidental Public
Servant, former Minister of the Federal Capital Territory, FCT, and recent
governor of Kaduna State, Nasir el-Rufai, recounts that the Chief Judge of the
FCT when he became Minister, Justice Lawal Hassan Gummi, had preceded him to
the Barewa College in Zaria.
As Minister, he desired “to
ensure the judiciary was fully on board with our reform directions”. Although
advised by his staff to invite the Chief Judge to a “briefing” with the
Minister, El-Rufai exultantly recalls that he overruled them because “our old
boys’ protocol trumped all others they may have in the FCT.” So, in obedience
to the supreme law of the Barewa Old Boys Association, BOBA, El-Rufai “visited
Justice Gummi, met with his team of senior judges and…. prayed for their
support.”
The result, El-Rufai further
exults, was that “the FCT judiciary supported us strongly throughout my
tenure”, and the official pay-off was a ministerial decision “to budget an
annual grant to support our judiciary to procure court recording and automation
equipment.”
The reader may note two things.
One is that in the narration of the Minister, the FCT judiciary became
transformed from an institution established to hold a fair balance between
different interests in society to one dedicated to servicing the Minister and
his FCT administration. The second is that the judiciary thus became – in his
telling – part and parcel of the government of the day to be instrumentalised
as the government dared, not an independent institution to hold the government
to account.
This was judicial fornication at
ministerial beck-and-call. After the publication of this book, some
non-governmental organisations under the aegis of the Civil Society Network
against Corruption, CSNAC, petitioned against Lawal Gummi to the then Chief
Justice of Nigeria, CJN, Aloma Mukhtar, who also chaired the National Judicial
Council, NJC.
In response, the CJN issued a
disciplinary query to the Chief Judge of the FCT “seeking explanation over an
annual grant made to the FCT judiciary by the FCT administration during Nasir
el Rufai’s administration.” Reluctant to be dragged through the process, Lawal
Gummi took early retirement and promptly got translated to the stool of the
Gummi Emirate in Zamfara State
One decade later, the current successor to the seat of the Chief Judge of
the FCT, Husseini Baba-Yusuf, preferred to take matters a notch higher by
showcasing his skills in judicial soliciting. Rather than have the Minister pay
him a visit, the Chief Judge went to promenade for the Minister of the FCT
instead, and took the opportunity to show off his plumes. Assuming the role of
a judicial vuvuzela, he began by hailing the Minister as having “exceeded the
level that people had thought you would perform”, before reminding him that “as
the judiciary, we are part of the government and we expect that we should be
able to do things that will make government work.”
In claiming that the judiciary
is “part of the government” the Chief Judge was fully aware that he was
inviting the Minister into an intimate transaction.
So, the Chief Judge let it be
known that he had issued directions to the judges under him that “all cases
involving the FCT will only be assigned by the Chief Judge….” A suitably
tingled Minister of the FCT happily nodded “thank you”, while the judges and
sundry hangers-on accompanying the Chief Judge clapped uproariously in full
expectation of full-on consummation.
While the conduct and verbiage
of the current Chief Judge were even more egregious than those of his durable
predecessor from one decade ago, few expect him to suffer anything like the
consequences that followed the revelations in The Accidental Public Servant.
The reason is because these days judicial mercenarism occurs in the full glare
of the records.
Judicial decision making is
ordinarily deliberative and its language, even in the pen or keyboard of the
colorful, is usually clothed with dignity. These days, however, some judges in
Nigeria are not shy about announcing which political side has penetrated their
judicial orifices. They are not merely contumelious but choose to advertise it.
When it decided to nullify the
election of Governor Ademola Adeleke of Osun State earlier in the year, for
instance, Justice T.A. Kume, who sat as part of the Governorship Election
Petition Tribunal relied on the high authority of Kizz Daniel’s popular single,
Buga, to hold that Adeleke “cannot ‘go lo lo lo lo’ and ‘buga won’ as the duly
elected governor of Osun State.
In the Kano State governorship
election petition decided last September, Benson Anya, a judge on the tribunal
went one further. Relying on matters that were never in evidence or in dispute
before the Tribunal, he described one side to the case as “bandits in politics”
and decided “to condemn the gang of Red Cap wearers (a reference to the
supporters of the second respondent in the case) who, like a violent and
terrorist cult, chased us out of Kano and put us in the fear of our lives. We
believe that only Allah is the giver of power. Those who believe in Allah must
bow to his (sic) will and submit to the authority of Governmental (sic)
power.”
For the avoidance of doubt, the
author of this insightful theological distraction is a Christian from Abia
State in South-East Nigeria and no question about Allah or His supremacy was
even remotely in contention in the case. It did not require any imagination to
understand that the god under reference by Benson Anya existed entirely in his
head, probably from vanities he harboured about the finality of the judicial
vote in determining election outcomes.
It is no surprise that this kind
of thing only happens in political and election disputes where politicians
chase judges with money and induce open trades in the outcome of judicial
proceedings. This is why judicial mercenarism is often accompanied by
unconcealed hubris. Just this past week, a Justice of Appeal, informed the
appellants in the judicial contest over the governorship of Lagos State that
they “came empty-handed and left empty-handed. They merely enjoyed their day in
court.”
The courts no longer even
pretend to tether their pronouncements to any sense of principle, precedent or
proportion. To use an expression originated by our neighbours in Cameroon,
judicial mercenarism now manifests itself in an open jurisprudence of “buy am; sell am.”
*A lawyer and a teacher, Odinkalu can
be reached at chidi.odinkalu@tufts.edu
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