Selective justice and political dissent in Nigeria: The cases of Sunday Igboho and Nnamdi Kanu – One country. Two agitators. Two radically different rules! Double standards in Nigeria’s response to separatist agitation!
By Uche J. Udenka
Nigeria’s constitutional promise of freedom of expression and peaceful assembly has always existed in tension with a state instinctively wary of dissent. That tension becomes most visible when activism drifts into separatist agitation. In recent years, two figures have come to symbolise this fault line: Sunday Igboho in the South-West and Nnamdi Kanu in the South-East. Their stories expose not just the fragility of civil liberties, but the dangerous double standards that shape how Nigeria treats political agitation.
Both men emerged from real grievances rooted in insecurity, marginalisation, and structural imbalance. Igboho rose to prominence in 2021 after mobilising Yoruba communities against violent attacks blamed on criminal herders in Oyo State. His rhetoric framed regional autonomy and self-defence as survival tools in a country that seemed unable to protect its citizens. Kanu, long before then, channelled Igbo discontent into a renewed campaign for Biafran self-determination through the Indigenous People of Biafra (IPOB), blending historical memory with modern exclusion from political power.
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Their methods differed, but their message converged: Nigeria is not working fairly for everyone. Igboho’s activism was localised and physical — rallies, community mobilisation, and direct confrontation with perceived threats. Kanu’s agitation was ideological and transnational — radio broadcasts, mass protests, and a movement with millions of sympathisers. Both challenged the authority of the Nigerian state. Both unsettled Abuja. Both spoke the language of exclusion. Yet the Federal Government’s response revealed a striking asymmetry. Igboho’s residence was raided in a late-night operation that left deaths and arrests in its wake. He fled into exile and was declared wanted. But years later, his name was quietly removed from the wanted list and his return negotiated through traditional rulers and elite mediation. The language of criminality softened into the language of reconciliation.
From fugitive to welcome guest — the politics of forgiveness.
Kanu’s experience tells a different story. He was arrested abroad under controversial circumstances, forcibly returned to Nigeria, and has remained in detention despite legal challenges and court pronouncements. The state continues to frame him as an existential security threat. While Igboho’s case is being “settled,” Kanu’s is being “punished.” Same offence. Different destiny. This contrast raises a fundamental question: is Nigeria governed by law, or by leverage? Both men articulated separatist ideas. Both mobilised followers. Both questioned Nigeria’s unity. Yet one is ushered back home through negotiated peace, while the other remains locked in a cell under the banner of national security. The difference cannot simply be reduced to “peaceful” versus “violent” agitation. Igboho’s rhetoric involved threats and ultimatums; Kanu’s early campaign relied largely on speech and protest. In both cases, violence entered the narrative only after the state framed the movements as enemies of the republic. Repression did not extinguish the movements; it radicalised them. Crackdowns don’t cure dissent — they manufacture martyrs.
What truly separates these cases is the political geography of power. The South-West possesses strong traditional institutions, influential elites, and proximity to federal authority. Negotiation is possible because pressure can be applied from inside the system. The South-East, lacking comparable access to the centre, relies on mass mobilisation and diaspora advocacy. The result is predictable: where negotiation exists, the state compromises; where it does not, the state criminalises. Justice in Nigeria is not blind — it looks at tribe and terrain.
This selective logic erodes the rule of law. In a true constitutional democracy, guilt or innocence should not depend on royal intervention or ethnic arithmetic. If evidence against Igboho was insufficient, the same standard must apply to Kanu. If Kanu is being held for alleged breaches of law, then Igboho’s actions must be judged by the same statutes, not by political convenience.
The law should be a scale, not a weapon.
Double standards deepen mistrust among Nigeria’s nationalities. Many in the South-East see Igboho’s reintegration as proof that separatism is tolerated when it comes from politically connected regions, but criminalised when it comes from others. Many in the South-West see Kanu’s continued detention as proof of a state addicted to intimidation. Each region reads injustice through its own pain.
Selective justice is the fuel of ethnic resentment.
Beyond these two men lies a larger danger: the criminalisation of dissent itself. When every protest is labelled a security threat, governance collapses into surveillance. Grievances are not addressed; they are militarised. Activists are no longer critics; they become enemies. And when critics become enemies, the state loses the moral authority to govern. A government that fears speech will eventually fear its own shadow. History offers a warning. Sentiments do not disappear because voices are silenced. They sink underground, ferment, and return with sharper teeth. Nigeria has seen this before—from the Niger Delta to Boko Haram to IPOB. The pattern is consistent: neglect produces protest; repression produces extremism. You cannot jail an idea — you can only delay it.
The Igboho–Kanu contrast therefore confronts Nigeria with a democratic test: can the state tolerate uncomfortable political ideas without resorting to brute force? Separatist agitation, however provocative, is a political claim before it is a criminal act. The proper response is legal process and political engagement, not night raids and indefinite detention. Courts, not commandos, should define guilt. If courts are bypassed, democracy is bypassed.
Consistency is the missing ingredient. A government confident in its legitimacy does not need two standards for one constitution. It applies the same law in Ibadan as in Umuahia, in Akure as in Aba. Anything less feeds suspicion that “national security” is a mask for regional bias.
One nation cannot survive on multiple standards of justice.
In the end, the stories of Sunday Igboho and Nnamdi Kanu are not merely about two agitators. They are about a state struggling to balance unity with diversity, authority with liberty. The double standards in their treatment reveal a Nigeria still unsure whether dissent is a democratic signal or a threat to be crushed.
When dissent is treated as treason, democracy becomes decoration.
Nigeria’s survival as a plural federation will not be secured by silencing agitators. It will be secured by proving that justice is not selective, that rights are not regional, and that citizenship is not conditional. Equal law or equal chaos — Nigeria must choose.
Until activism is judged by law rather than by location, agitation will persist. And until Nigeria learns to listen instead of merely punish, the voices it tries to silence will only grow louder.
A nation that refuses dialogue is inviting disintegration, for when leaders choose force over conversation, they abandon unity, legitimise anger, and drive alienated citizens toward paths that weaken the very state they claim to defend.
- Arc. Uche J. Udenka, a social and political Aanalyst – #AfricaVisionAdvancementTrust – and C.E.O. Igbo Renaissance Awakening, writes from Ghana.
